I 


UhlVFRSiTY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
LOS    ^-^  ANGELE5 


5WF    UOWSRARY 

Aj> rresenled  t>f 

.  jfCftf.t. .  .G.  p.  r.4  Al . .  M.'A  ?&.., 

NOT  TO  BE  TAKEN  FROM  THE  ROOM 


TEE 


MISCELLANEOUS 


WORKS 


OF 


WILLIAM    HAZLITT. 


IN   THREE   VOLUMES. 


VOL.  I. 


NEW  YORK: 
R.    WORTHINGTON, 

770,  BROADWAY. 


47TO 

)£O0z. 

CONTENTS. 


TABLE  TALK.    FIRST  SERIES.    PART  L 


Publishers'  Advertisement,     ........     vii 

Essay  I. — On  the  Pleasure  or  Painting, 1 

II. — The  same  Subject, 12 

III. — On  the  Past  and  Future, 22 

IV. — On  People  with  one  Idea, 83 

Y. — On  the  Ignorance  of  the  Learned,       .  .45 

VI. — On  Will-Making, 55 

VII. — On  a  Landscape  of  Nicolas  Poussin 66 

VIII. — On  Going  a  Journey, 74 

EL — Why  Distant  Objects  Please, 85 

X. — On  Corporate  Bodies,      .......     96 

XI. — On  the  Knowledge  of  Character,  ....  106 

XII. — On  the  Fear  of  Death, .124 

XIII. — On  Application  to  Study,        .        .        .        .        .        .135 

XIV. — On  the  Old  Age  of  Artists,  ......  149 

XV.— On  Egotism, 161 

XVI. — On  the  Regal  Character, 176 


PUBLISHERS'     ADVERTISEMENT. 


Tmt  following  collection  of  papers  includes  all  the  Essays  pub- 
lished by  Hazlitt  in  Paris  under  the  title  of  the  Table  Talk,  to 
which  the  following  notice  was  prefixed  : 

"  The  work  here  offered  to  the  public  is  a  selection  from  the 
four  volumes  of  Table  Talk,  printed  in  London.  Should  it  meet 
with  success,  it  will  be  followed  by  two  other  volumes  of  the  same 
description,  which  will  include  all  that  the  author  wishes  to  pre- 
serve of  his  writings  in  this  kind.  The  title  may  perhaps  serve 
to  explain  what  there  is  of  peculiarity  in  the  style  or  mode  of 
treating  the  subjects.  I  had  remarked  that  when  I  had  written 
or  thought  upon  a  particular  topic,  and  afterwards  had  occasion 
to  speak  of  it  with  a  friend,  the  conversation  generally  took  a 
much  wider  range,  and  branched  off  into  a  number  of  indirect 
and  eollateral  questions,  which  were  not  strictly  connected  with 
the  original  view  of  the  subject,  but  which  often  threw  a  curious 
and  striking  light  upon  it,  or  upon  human  life  in  general.  It 
therefore  occurred  to  me  as  possible  to  combine  the  advantages 
of  these  two  styles,  the  literary  and  conversational ;  or  after  stating 
and  enforcing  some  leading  idea,  to  follow  it  up  by  such  obser- 
vations and  reflections  as  would  probably  suggest  themselves  in 
discussing  the  same  question  in  company  with  others.  This 
seemed  to  me  to  promise  a  greater  variety  and  richness,  and 
perhaps  a  greater  sincerity,  than  could  be  attained  by  a  more 
precise  and  scholastic  method.  The  same  consideration  had  an 
influence  on  the  familiarity  and  conversational  idiom  of  the  style 
which  I  have  used      How  far  the  plan  was  feasible,  or  how  far 


fit  PUBLISHERS'  ADVERTISEMENT. 

I  have  succeeded  in  the  execution  of  it,  must  be  left  to  others  to 
decide.  I  am  also  afraid  of  having  too  frequently  attempted  to 
give  a  popular  air  and  effect  to  subtle  distinctions  and  trains  of 
thought ;  so  that  I  shall  be  considered  as  too  metaphysical  by  the 
careless  reader,  while  by  the  more  severe  and  scrupulous  inquirer 
my  style  will  be  complained  of  as  too  light  and  desultory.  To 
all  this  I  can  only  answer  that  I  have  done  not  what  I  wished, 
but  the  best  I  could  do  ;  and  I  heartily  wish  it  had  been  better. 

A  collection  made  in  this  manner  for  a  foreign  European 
market  by  the  author  himself,  may  also  serve  as  the  best  intro- 
duction (the  one  nearest  the  writer's  wishes,  were  he  living)  of  a 
series  of  his  works  to  the  American  public.  The  second  part 
alluded  to  was  never  published  at  Paris,  but  it  is  not  difficult  to 
supply  it  on  similar  principles  of  selection,  from  the  various  scat- 
tered writings  of  the  author.  This  will  be  attempted  in  the 
second  part  of  the  Table-Talk,  to  be  published  immediately,  with 
no  fear  of  the  result,  in  the  production  of  a  brilliant  volume  of 
Essays.  The  volumes  of  the  Bound  Table,  and  Sketches  and 
Essays,  published  by  the  author's  son,  will  be  left  untouched  for 
future  publication  in  this  series,  which  will  also  include  the 
various  volumes  of  Lectures  and  Critical  Papers  of  Hazlht. 


TABLE    TALK. 


ESSAY  L 

On  the  Pleasure  of  Painting. 

"  There  is  a  pleasure  in  painting  which  none  but  painters  know.'1 
[a  writing,  you  nave  to  contend  with  the  world ;  in  painting,  you 
have  only  to  carry  on  a  friendly  strife  with  Nature.  You  sit 
down,  to  your  task,  and  are  happy.  From  the  moment  that  you 
take  up  the  pencil,  and  took  Nature  in  the  face,  you  are  at  peace 
with  your  own  heart.  No  angry  passions  rise  to  disturb  the 
silent  progress  of  the  work,  to  shake  the  hand,  or  dim  ihe  brow : 
no  irritable  humours  are  set  afloat :  you  have  no  absurd  opin- 
ions to  combat,  no  point  to  strain,  no  adversary  to  crush,  no  fool 
to  annoy — you  are  actuated  by  fear  or  favour  to  no  man.  There 
is  "no  juggling  here,"  no  sophistry,  no  intrigue,  no  tampeiing 
with  the  evidence,  no  attempt  to  make  black  white,  or  white 
hlack :  but  you  resign  yourself  into  the  hands  of  a  greater 
power,  that  of  Nature,  with  the  simplicity  of  a  child,  and  the 
devotion  of  an  enthusiast — 

"  Study  with  joy 
Her  manner,  and  with  rapture  taste  her  style." 

The  mind  is  calm,  and  full  at  the  same  time.  The  hand  and 
eye  are  equally  employed.  In  tracing  the  commonest  object,  a 
plant  or  the  stump  of  a  tree,  you  learn  something  every  moment. 
You  perceive  unexpected  differences,  and  discover  likenesses 
where  you  looked  for  no  such  thing.  You  try  to  set  down  what 
you  see — find  out  your  error,  and  correct  it.  You  need  not  play 
tricks,  or  purposely  mistake  :  with  all  your  pains,  you  are  still 

I* 


TABLE  TALK. 


far  short  of  the  mark.  Patience  grows  out  of  the  endless  pui 
suit.,  and  turns  into  a  luxury.  A  streak  in  a  flower,  a  wrinkle  in 
a  leaf,  a  tinge  in  a  cloud,  a  stain  in  an  old  wall  or  ruin  grey,  are 
seized  with  avidity  as  the  spolia  opima  of  this  sort  of  mental  war- 
fare, and  furnish  out  labour  for  another  half-day  The  hours 
pass  on  untold,  without  chagrin,  and  without  weariness;  nor 
would  you  ever  wish  to  pass  them  otherwise.  Innocence  is 
joined  with  industry,  pleasure  with  business ;  and  the  mind  is 
satisfied,  though  it  is  not  engaged  in  thinking  or  in  doing  harm.* 
I  have  not  much  pleasure  in  writing  these  Essays,  or  in  read- 
ing them  afterwards ;  though  I  own  I  now  and  then  meet  with  a 
phrase  that  I  like,  or  a  thought  that  strikes  me  as  a  true  one. 
But  after  I  begin  them,  I  am  only  anxious  to  get  to  the  end  of 
them,  which  I  am  not  sure  I  shall  do,  for  I  seldom  see  my  way 
a  page  or  even  a  sentence  beforehand  ;  and  when  I  have  as  by  a 
miracle  escaped,  I  trouble  myself  little  more  about  them.  I 
sometimes  have  to  write  them  twice  over :  then  it  is  necessary  to 

*  There  is  a  .passage  in  Werter  which  contains  a  very  pleasing  illustra- 
tion of  this  doctrine,  and  is  as  follows : 

"  About  a  league  from  the  town  is  a  place  called  Walheim.  It  is  very 
agreeably  situated  on  the  side  of  a  hill :  from  one  of  the  paths  which  leads 
out  of  the  village,  you  have  a  view  of  the  whole  country ;  and  there  is  a 
good  old  woman  who  sells  wine,  Goffee,  and  tea  there ;  but  better  than  all 
this,  are  two  lime-trees  before  the  church,  which  spread  their  branches  over 
a  little  green,  surrounded  by  barns  and  cottages.  I  have  seen  few  places 
more  refined  and  peaceful.  I  send  for  a  chair  and  table  from  the  old 
woman's,  and  there  1  drink  my  coffee  and  read  Homer.  It  was  by  accident 
that  1  discovered  this  place  one  fine  afternoon  :  all  was  perfect  stillness ; 
every  body  was  in  the  fields,  except  a  little  boy  about  four  years  old,  who 
was  sitting  on  the  ground,  and  holding  between  his  knees  a  child  of  about 
six  months ;  he  pressed  it  to  his  bosom  with  his  little  arms,  which  made  a 
sort  of  great  chair  for  it ;  and  notwithstanding  the  vivacity  which  sparkled 
in  his  eyes,  he  sat  perfectly  still,  duite  delighted  with  the  scene,  I  sat  down 
on  a  plough  opposite,  and  had  great  pleasuse  in  drawing  this  little  picture 
of  brotherly  tenderness.  I  added  a  bit  of  the  hedge,  the  barn-door,  and 
some  broken  cart-wheels,  without  any  order,  just  as  they  happened  to  lie ; 
and  in  about  an  hour  I  found  1  had  made  a  drawing  of  great  expression  and 
very  correct  design,  without  having  put  in  any  thing  of  my  own.  This 
confirmed  me  in  the  resolution  I  had  made  before,  only  to  copy  nature  for 
the  future.  Nature  is  inexhaustible,  and  alone  forms  the  greatest  masters 
Say  what  you  will  of  rules,  they  alter  the  true  features,  and  the  natuml  ex- 
piession." 


THE  PLEASURE  OF  PAINTING. 


read  the  proof,  to  prevent  mistakes  by  the  printer ;  so  that  by  the 
time  they  appear  in  a  tangible  shape,  and  one  can  con  them  over 
with  a  conscious,  sidelong  glance  to  the  public  approbation,  they 
have  lost  their  gloss  and  relish,  and  become  "  more  tedious  than 
a  twice-told  tale."  For  a  person  to  read  his  own  works  over 
with  any  great  delight,  he  ought  first  to  forget  that  he  ever  wrote 
them.  Familiarity  naturally  breeds  contempt.  It  is,  in  fact, 
like  poring  fondly  over  a  piece  of  blank  paper :  from  repetition, 
the  words  convey  no  distinct  meaning  to  the  mind,  are  mere  idle 
sounds,  except  that  our  vanity  claims  an  interest  and  property  in 
them.  I  have  more  satisfaction  in  my  own  thoughts  than  in  dic- 
tating them  to  others :  words  are  necessary  to  explain  the  im- 
pression of  certain  things  upon  me  to  the  reader,  but  they  rather 
weaken  and  draw  a  veil  over  than  strengthen  it  to  myself. 
However  I  might  say  with  the  poet,  "  My  mind  to  me  a  kingdom 
is,"  yet  I  have  little  ambition  "  to  set  a  throne  or  chair  of  state 
in  the  understandings  of  other  men."  The  ideas  we  cherish 
most,  exist  best  in  a  kind  of  shadowy  abstraction, 

"  Pure  in  the  last  recesses  of  the  mind ;" 

and  derive  neither  force  nor  interest  from  being  exposed  to  public 
view.  They  are  old-established  acquaintance,  and  any  change 
in  them,  arising  from  the  adventitious  ornaments  of  style  or 
dress,  is  hardly  to  their  advantage.  After  I  have  once  written 
on  a  subject,  it  goes  out  of  my  mind :  my  feelings  about  it  have 
been  melted  down  into  words,  and  them  I  forget.  I  have,  as  it 
were,  discharged  my  memory  of  its  habitual  reckoning,  and 
rubbed  out  the  score  of  real  sentiment.  In  future,  it  exists  only 
for  the  sake  of  others. 

But  I  cannot  say,  from  my  own  experience,  that  the  same  pro- 
cess takes  place  in  transferring  our  ideas  to  canvas ;  they  gain 
more  than  they  lose  in  the  mechanical  transformation.  One 
is  never  tired  of  painting,  because  you  have  to  set  down  not 
what  you  knew  already,  but  what  you  have  just  discovered.  In 
the  former  case,  you  translate  feelings  into  words ;  in  the  latter, 
names  into  things.  There  is  a  continual  creation  out  of  nothing 
going  on.  With  every  stroke  of  the  brush,  a  new  field  of  in- 
quiry is  laid  open ;    new  difficulties  arise,  and  new  triumphs; 


TABLE  TALK. 


are  prepared  over  them.  By  comparing  the  imitation  with  the 
original,  you  see  what  you  have  done,  and  how  much  you  have 
still  to  do.  The  test  of  the  senses  is  severer  than  that  of  fancy, 
and  an  overmatch  even  for  the  delusions  of  our  self-love.  One 
part  of  a  picture  shames  another,  and  you  determine  to  paint  up 
to  yourself,  if  you  cannot  come  up  to  nature.  Every  object  be- 
comes lustrous  from  the  light  thrown  back  upon  it  by  the  mirror  of 
art :  and  by  the  aid  of  the  pencil  we  may  be  said  to  touch  and  handlo 
the  objects  of  sight.  The  air- wove  visions  that  hover  on  the  verge 
of  existence  have  a  bodily  presence  given  them  on  the  canvas : 
the  form  of  beauty  is  changed  into  a  substance :  the  dream  and 
the  glory  of  the  universe  is  made  "  palpable  to  feeling  as  to  sight." 
— And  see  !  a  rainbow  starts  from  the  canvas,  with  all  its  humid 
train  of  glory,  as  if  it  were  drawn  from  its  cloudy  arch  in  heaven. 
The  spangled  landscape  glitters  with  drops  of  dew  after  the 
shower.  The  "  fleecy  fools"  shew  their  coats  in  the  gleams  of 
the  setting  snn.  The  shepherds  pipe  their  farewell  notes  in  the 
fresh  evening  air.  And  is  this  bright  vision  made  from  a  dead 
dull  blank,  like  a  bubble  reflecting  the  mighty  fabric  of  the  uni- 
verse ?  We  would  think  this  miracle  of  Rubens's  pencil  possible 
to  be  performed  ?  Who,  having  seen  it,  would  not  spend  his  lile 
to  do  the  like  ?  See  how  the  rich  fallows,  the  bare  stubble-field, 
the  scanty  harvest-home,  drag  in  Rembrandt's  landscapes  !  flow 
often  have  I  looked  at  them  and  nature,  and  tried  to  do  the  same, 
till  the  very  "  light  thickened,"  and  there  was  an  earthiness  in 
the  feeling  of  the  air !  There  is  no  end  of  the  refinements  of 
art  and  nature  in  this  respect.  One  may  look  at  the  misty  glim- 
mering  horizon,  till  the  eye  dazzles,  and  the  imagination  is  lost 
in  the  hope  to  transfer  the  whole  interminable  expanse  at  one 
blow  upon  the  canvas.  Wilson  said,  he  endeavoured  to  paint  the 
effect  of  the  motes  dancing  in  the  setting  sun.  At  another  time, 
a  friend  coming  into  his  painting-room,  when  he  was  sitting  on 
the  ground  in  a  melancholy  posture,  observed  that  his  picture 
looked  like  a  landscape  after  a  shower :  he  started  up  with  the 
greatest  delight,  and  said,  "  That  is  the  effect  I  intended  to  re- 
present,  but  thought  I  had  failed."  Wilson  was  neglected  ;  and, 
by  degrees,  neglected  his  art  to  apply  himself  to  brandy.  His 
hand  became  unsteady,  so  that  it  was  only  by  repeated  attempis 


THE   PLEASURE   OF  PAINTING. 


that  he  could  reach  the  place,  or  produce  the  effect  he  anned  at ; 
and  when  he  had  done  a  little  to  a  picture,  he  would  say  to  any 
acquaintance  who  chanced  to  drop  in,  "  I  have  painted  enough 
for  one  day  :  come,  let  us  go  somewhere."  It  was  not  so  Claude 
left  his  pictures,  or  his  studies  on  the  banks  of  the  Tiber,  to  go 
in  search  of  other  enjoyments,  or  ceased  to  gaze  upon  the  glitter- 
ing sunny  vales  and  distant  hills ;  and  while  his  eye  drank  in  the 
clear  sparkling  hues  and  lovely  forms  of  nature,  his  hand  stamped 
them  on  the  lucid  canvas  to  remain  there  for  ever ! — One  of  the 
most  delightful  parts  of  my  life  was  one  fine  summer,  when  I 
used  to  walk  out  of  an  evening  to  catch  the  last  light  of  the  sun, 
gemming  the  green  slopes  or  russet  lawns,  and  gilding  tower  or 
tree,  while  the  blue  sky  gradually  turning  to  purple  and  gold, 
or  skirted  with  dusky  grey,  hung  its  broad  marble  pavement  over 
all,  as  we  see  it  in  the  great  master  of  Italian  landscape.  But 
to  come  to  a  more  particular  explanation  of  the  subject. 

The  first  head  I  ever  tried  to  paint  was  an  old  woman  with 
the  upper  part  of  the  face  shaded  by  her  bonnet,  and  I  certainly 
laboured  it  with  great  perseverance.  It  took  me  numberless  sit- 
tings to  do  it.  I  have  it  by  me  still,  and  sometimes  look  at  it  with 
surprise,  to  think  how  much  pains  were  thrown  away  to  little 
purpose, — yet  not  altogether  in  vain,  if  it  taught  me  to  see  good 
in  every  thing,  and  to  know  that  there  is  nothing  vulgar  in  nature 
seen  with  the  eye  of  science  or  of  true  art.  Refinement  creates 
beauty  everywhere  :  it  is  the  grossness  of  the  spectator  that  dis- 
covers nothing  but  grossness  in  the  object.  Be  this  as  it  may,  I 
spared  no  pains  to  do  my  best.  If  art  was  long,  I  thought  that 
life  was  so  too  at  that  moment.  I  got  in  the  general  effect  the 
first  day  ;  and  pleased  and  surprised  enough  I  was  at  my  success. 
The  rest  was  a  work  of  time — of  weeks  and  months  (if  need  were), 
of  patient  toil  and  careful  finishing.  I  had  seen  an  old  head  by 
Rembrandt  at  Burleigh-House  ;  av.d  if  I  could  produce  a  head  at 
all  like  Rembrandt  in  a  year,  in  my  life-time,  it  would  be  glory 
and  felicity  and  wealth  and  fame  enough  for  me  !  The  head  1 
had  seen  at  Burleigh  was  an  exact  and  wonderful  fac-simile  of 
nature,  and  I  resolved  to  make  mine  (as  nearly  as  I  could)  an 
exact  fac-simile  of  nature.  I  did  not  then,  nor  do  I  now  believe 
with  Sir  Joshua,  that  the  perfection  of  art  consists  in  giving 


TABLE  TALK. 


general  appearances  without  individual  details,  but  in  giving 
general  appearances  with  individual  details.  Otherwise,  I  had 
done  my  work  the  first  day.  But  I  saw  something  more  in  na- 
ture than  general  effect,  and  I  thought  it  worth  my  while  to  give 
it  in  the  picture.  There  was  a  gorgeous  effect  of  light  and 
shade  :  but  there  was  a  delicacy  as  well  as  depth  in  the  chiaro- 
scuro, which  I  was  bound  to  follow  into  all  its  dim  and  scarce 
perceptible  variety  of  tone  and  shadow.  Then  I  had  to  make 
the  transition  from  a  strong  light  to  as  dark  a  shade,  preserving 
the  masses,  but  gradually  softening  off  the  intermediate  parts.  It 
was  so  in  nature  :  the  difficulty  was  to  make  it  so  in  the  copy.  I 
tried,  and  failed  again  and  again  ;  I  strove  harder,  and  succeeded, 
as  I  thought.  The  wrinkles  in  Rembrandt  were  not  hard  lines  ; 
but  broken  and  irregular.  I  saw  the  same  appearance  in  nature, 
and  strained  every  nerve  to  give  it.  If  I  could  hit  off"  this  crum- 
bling appearance,  and  insert  the  reflected  light  in  the  furrows  of 
old  age  in  half  a  morning,  I  did  not  think  I  had  lost  a  day.  Be- 
neath the  shrivelled  yellow  parchment  look  of  the  skin,  there  was 
here  and  there  a  streak  of  blood-colour  tinging  the  face  ;  this  I 
made  a  point  of  conveying,  and  did  not  cease  to  compare  what 
I  saw  with  what  I  did  (with  jealous,  lynx-eyed  watchfulness)  till  I 
succeeded  to  the  best  of  my  ability  and  judgment.  How  many 
revisions  were  there !  How  many  attempts  to  catch  an  expres- 
sion, which  I  had  seen  the  day  before  !  How  often  did  we  strive 
to  get  the  old  position,  and  wait  for  the  return  of  the  same  light ! 
There  was  a  puckering  up  of  the  lips,  a  cautious  introversion  of 
the  eye  under  the  shadow  of  the  bonnet,  indicative  of  the  feeble- 
ness and  suspicion  of  old  age,  which  at  last  we  managed,  after 
many  trials  and  some  quarrels,  to  a  tolerable  nicety.  The  pic- 
ture was  never  finished,  and  I  might  have  gone  on  with  it  to  the 
Dresent  hour.*  I  used  to  set  it  on  the  ground  when  my  day's 
work  was  done,  and  saw  revealed  to  me  with  swimming  eyes  the 
birth  of  new  hopes  and  of  a  new  world  of  objects. — The  painter 
thus  learns  to  look  at  nature  with  different  eyes.  He  before  saw 
her  "as  in  a  glass  darkly,  but  now  face  to  face."     He  under- 

*  It  is  at  present  covered  with  a  thick  slough  of  oil  and  varnish  (the  perish- 
able vehicle  of  the  English  school)  like  an  envelope  of  gold-beaters'  skin,  so  aa 
to  be  hardly  visible. 


THE   PLEASURE   OF  PAINTING. 


rtands  the  texture  and  meaning  of  the  visible  universe,  and  "sees 
into  the  life  of  things,"  not  by  the  help  of  mechanical  instruments, 
but  of  the  improved  exercise  of  his  faculties,  and  an  intimate 
sympathy  with  nature.  The  meanest  thing  is  not  lost  upon  him, 
for  he  looks  at  it  with  an  eye  to  itself,  not  merely  to  his  own 
vanity  or  interest,  or  the  opinion  of  the  world.  Even  where 
there  is  neither  beauty  nor  use — if  that  ever  were — still  there  is 
truth,  and  a  sufficient  source  of  gratification  in  the  indulgence  of 
curiosity  and  activity  of  mind.  The  humblest  painter  is  a  true 
scholar :  and  the  best  of  scholars — the  scholar  of  nature.  For 
myself,  and  for  the  real  comfort  and  satisfaction  of  the  thing,  I 
had  rather  have  been  Jan  Steen,  or  Gerard  Dow,  than  the  greatest 
casuist  or  philologer  that  ever  lived.  The  painter  does  not  view 
things  in  clouds  or  "  mist,  the  common  gloss  of  theologians,"  but 
applies  the  same  standard  of  truth  and  disinterested  spirit  of  in- 
quiry, that  influence  his  daily  practice,  to  other  subjects.  He 
perceives  form  ;  he  distinguishes  character.  He  reads  men  and 
books  with  an  intuitive  glance.  He  is  a  critic  as  well  as  a  con- 
noisseur. The  conclusions  he  draws  are  clear  and  convincing, 
because  they  are  taken  from  actual  experience.  He  is  not  a 
fanatic,  a  dupe,  or  a  slave :  for  the  habit  of  seeing  for  himself 
also  disposes  him  to  judge  for  himself.  The  most  sensible  men  I 
know  (taken  as  a  class)  are  painters  ;  that  is,  they  are  the  most 
lively  observers  of  what  passes  in  the  world  about  them,  and  the 
closest  observers  of  what  passes  in  their  own  minds.  From  their 
profession  they  in  general  mix  more  with  the  world  than  authors, 
and  if  they  have  not  the  sarr  e  fund  of  acquired  knowledge,  are 
obliged  to  rely  more  on  individual  sagacity.  I  might  mention 
the  names  of  Opie,  Fuseli,  Northcote,  as  persons  distinguished 
for  striking  description  and  acquaintance  with  the  subtle  traits  of 
character.*  Painters  in  ordinary  society,  or  in  obscure  situa- 
tions where  their  value  is  not  known,  and  they  are  treated  with 

*  Men  in  business,  who  are  answerable  with  their  fortunes  for  the  conse- 
quences of  their  opinions,  and  are  therefore  accustomed  to  ascertain  pretty 
accurately  the  grounds  on  which  they  act,  before  they  commit  themselves  on 
the  event,  are  often  men  of  remarkably  quick  and  sound  judgments.  Artists* 
in  like  manner  must  know  tolerably  well  what  they  are  about,  before  they  can 
bring  »he  result  of  their  observations  to  the  test  of  ocular  demonstration. 


TABLE  TALK. 


neglect  and  indifference,  have  sometimes  a  forward  self-sufficien- 
cy of  manner :  but  this  is  not  so  much  their  fault  as  that  of  others. 
Perhaps  their  want  of  regular  education  may  also  be  in  fault  in 
such  cases.  Richardson,  who  is  very  tenacious  of  the  respect  in 
which  the  profession  ought  to  be  held,  tells  a  story  of  Michal  An- 
gelo,  that  after  a  quarrel  between  him  and  Pope  Julius  II.,  "upon 
account  of  a  slight  the  artist  conceived  the  pontiff  had  put  upon 
him,  Michael  Angelo  was  introduced  by  a  bishop,  who,  thinking 
to  serve  the  artist  by  it,  made  it  an  argument  that  the  Pope  should 
be  reconciled  to  him,  because  men  of  his  profession  were  com- 
monly ignorant,  and  of  no  consequence  otherwise  :*  his  holiness, 
enraged  at  the  bishop,  struck  him  with  his  staff,  and  told  him,  it 
was  he  that  was  the  blockhead,  and  affronted  the  man  himself 
would  not  offend ;  the  prelate  was  driven  out  of  the  chamber,  and 
Michal  Angelo  had  the  Pope's  benediction  accompanied  with 
presents.  This  bishop  had  fallen  into  the  vulgar  error,  and  was 
rebuked  accordingly." 

Besides  the  employment  of  the  mind,  painting  exercises  the 
body.  It  is  a  mechanical  as  well  as  a  liberal  art.  To  do  any 
thing,  to  dig  a  hole  in  the  ground,  to  plant  a  cabbage,  to  hit  a 
mark,  to  move  a  shuttle,  to  work  a  pattern, — in  a  word,  to  at- 
tempt to  produce  any  effect,  and  to  succeed,  has  something  in  it 
that  gratifies  the  love  of  power,  and  carries  off  the  restless  ac- 
tivity of  the  mind  of  man.  Indolence  is  a  delightful  but  distress- 
ing state :  we  must  be  doing  something  to  be  happy.  Action  is 
no  less  necessary  than  thought  to  the  instinctive  tendencies  of 
the  human  frame  ;  and  painting  combines  them  both  incessantly.* 
The  hand  furnishes  a  practical  test  of  the  correctness  of  the  eye  ; 
and  the  eye,  thus  admonished,  imposes  fresh  tasks  of  skill  and 
industry  upon  the  hand.  Every  stroke  tells,  as  the  verifying 
of  a  new  truth  ;  and  every  new  observation,  the  instant  it  is  made, 
passes  into  an  act  and  emanation  of  ihe  will.  Every  step  is 
nearer  what  we  wish,  and  yet  there  is  always  more  to  do.  In 
spite  of  the  facility,  the  fluttering  grace,  the  evanescent  hues, 
-hat  play  round  the  pencil  of  Rubens  and  Vandyke,  however  1 

*  The  famous  Schiller  used  to  say,  that  he  found  the  great  happiness  of 
life,  after  all,  to  consist  in  the  discharge  of  some  mechanical  duty. 


THE  PLEASURE  OF  PAINTING. 


may  admire,  I  do  not  envy  them  this  power  so  much  as  I  do  the 
slow,  patient,  laborious  execution  of  Correggio,  Leonardo  da 
Vinci,  and  Andrea  del  Sarto,  where  every  touch  appears  oonsci- 
ous  of  its  charge,  emulous  of  truth,  and  where  the  painful  artist 
has  "  so  distinctly  wrought," 

"  That  you  might  almost  say  his  picture  thought !" 

In  the  one  case,  the  colours  seem  breathed  on  the  canvas  as 
by  magic,  the  work  and  the  wonder  of  a  moment :  in  the  other, 
they  seem  inlaid  in  the  body  of  the  work,4  and  as  if  it  took  the 
artist  years  of  unremitting  labour,  and  of  delightful  never-ending 
progress  to  perfection.*  Who  would  wish  ever  to  come  to  the 
close  of  such  works, — not  to  dwell  on  them,  to  return  to  them,  to 
be  wedded  to  them  to  the  last  ?  Rubens,  with  his  florid,  rapid 
style,  complained  that  when  he  had  just  learned  his  art,  he  should 
be  forced  to  die.  Leonardo,  in  the  slow  advances  of  his,  had 
lived  long  enough  ! 

Painting  is  not,  like  writing,  what  is  properly  understood  by  a 
sedentary  employment.  It  requires  not,  indeed,  a  strong,  but  a 
continued  and  steady  exertion  of  muscular  power.  The  preci- 
sion and  delicacy  of  the  manual  operation  makes  up  for  the  want 
of  vehemence, — as  to  balance  himself  for  any  time  in  the  same 
position  the  rope-dancer  must  strain  every  nerve.  Painting  for 
a  whole  morning  gives  one  as  excellent  an  appetite  for  one's  din- 
ner, as  old  Abraham  Tucker  acquired  for  his  by  riding  over 
Banstead  Downs.  It  is  related  of  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  that 
"  he  took  no  other  exercises  than  what  he  used  in  his  painting- 
room," — the  writer  means,  in  walking  backwards  and  forwards 
to  look  at  his  picture ;  but  the  act  of  painting  itself,  of  laying  on 
the  colours  in  the  proper  place  and  proper  quantity,  was  a  much 
harder  exercise  than  this  alternate  receding  from  and  returning 
to  the  picture.  The  last  would  be  rather  a  relaxation  and  relief 
than  an  effort.  It  is  not  to  be  wondered  at,  that  an  artist  like 
Sir  Joshua,  who  delighted  so  much  in  the  sensual  and  practical 

*  The  rich  impasting  of  Titian  and  Giorgione  combines  something  of  the 
advantages  of  both  these  styles,  the  felicity  of  the  one  with  the  carefulness  of 
the  other,  and  is  perhaps  to  be  preferred  to  either. 


10  TABLE  TALK. 


part  of  his  art,  should  have  found  himself  at  a  considerable  loss 
when  the  decay  of  his  sight  precluded  him,  for  the  last  year  or 
two  of  his  life,  from  the  following  up  of  his  profession, — "  the 
source,"  according  to  his  own  remark,  "  of  thirty  years'  un- 
interrupted enjoyment  and  prosperity  to  him."  It  is  only  those 
who  never  think  at  all,  or  else  who  have  accustomed  themselves 
to  brood  invariably  on  abstract  ideas,  that  never  feel  ennui. 

To  give  one  instance  more,  and  then  I  will  have  done  with  this 
rambling  discourse.  One  of  my  first  attempts  was  a  picture  of 
my  father,  who  was  then  in  a  green  old  age,  with  strong-marked 
features,  and  scarred  with  the  small-pox.  T  drew  it  with  a  broad 
light  crossing  the  face,  looking  down,  with  spectacles  on,  reading. 
The  book  was  Shaftesbury's  Characteristics,  in  a  fine  old  binding, 
with  Gribelin's  etchings.  My  father  would  as  lieve  it  had  been 
any  other  book ;  but  for  him  to  read  was  to  be  content,  was 
"  riches  fineless."  The  sketch  promised  well ;  and  I  set  to  work 
to  finish  it,  determined  to  spare  no  time  nor  pains.  My  father 
was  willing  to  sit  as  long  as  I  pleased ;  for  there  is  a  natural 
desire  in  the  mind  of  man  to  sit  for  one's  picture,  to  be  the  object 
of  continued  attention,  to  have  one's  likeness  multiplied ;  and 
besides  his  satisfaction  in  the  picture,  he  had  some  pride  in  the 
artist,  though  he  would  rather  I  should  have  written  a  sermon 
than  have  painted  like  Rembrandt  or  like  Raphael !  Those 
winter  days,  with  the  gleams  of  sunshine  coming  through  the 
chapel-windows,  and  cheered  by  the  notes  of  the  robin  red- 
breast in  our  garden  (that  "ever  in  the  haunch  of  winter 
sings") — as  my  afternoon's  work  drew  to  a  close, — were  among 
the  happiest  of  my  life.  When  I  gave  the  efiect  I  intended  to 
any  part  of  the  picture  for  which  I  had  prepared  my  colours 
when  I  imitated  the  roughness  of  the  skin  by  a  lucky  stroke  01 
the  pencil,  when  I  hit  the  clear  pearly  tone  of  a  vein,  when  ] 
gave  the  ruddy  complexion  of  health,  the  blood  circulating  undei 
the  broad  shadows  of  one  side  of  the  face,  I  thought  my  fortune 
made  ;  or  rather  it  was  already  more  than  made,  in  my  fancying 
that  I  might  one  day  be  able  lo  say  with  Correggio,  "  I  also  am 
a  painter  /"  It  was  an  idle  thought,  a  boy's  conceit ;  but  it  did 
not  make  me  less  happy  at  the  time.  I  used  regularly  to  set  my 
work  in  the  chair  to  look  at  it  through  the  long  evenings  ;  and 


THE  PLEASURE  OF  PAINTING.  ** 


many  a  time  did  I  return  to  take  leave  of  it,  before  I  could  go  to 
bed  at  night.  I  remember  sending  it  with  a  throbbing  heart  to 
the  Exhibition,  and  seeing  it  hung  up  there  by  the  side  of  one  of 
the  Honourable  Mr.  Skeffington  (now  Sir  George).  There  was 
nothing  in  common  between  them,  but  that  they  were  the  por- 
traits of  two  very  good-natured  men.  I  think,  but  am  not  sure, 
that  I  finished  this  portrait  (or  another  afterwards)  on  the  same 
day  that  the  news  of  the  battle  of  Austerlitz  came  ;  I  walked 
out  in  the  afternoon,  and,  as  I  returned,  saw  the  evening  star  set 
over  a  poor  man's  cottage  with  other  thoughts  and  feelings  than  1 
shall  ever  have  again.  O  for  the  revolution  of  the  great 
Platonic  year,  that  those  times  might  come  over  again !  I  could 
sleep  out  the  three  hundred  and  sixty-five  thousand  intervening 
years  very  contentedly ! — The  picture  is  left :  the  table,  the 
chair,  the  window  where  I  learned  to  construe  Livy,  the  chapel 
where  my  father  preached,  remain  where  they  were ;  but  he 
himself  is  gone  to  rest,  full  of  years,  of  faith,  of  hope,  and 
charity  I 


IS  TABLE  TALK. 


ESSAY  II. 

The  same  subject  continued. 

The  painter  not  only  takes  a  delight  in  nature,  he  has  a  new  and 
exquisite  source  of  pleasure  opened  to  him  in  the  study  and  con- 
templation of  works  of  art — 

"  Whate'er  Lorraine  light  touch'd  with  soft'ning  hue, 
Or  savage  Rosa  dash'd,  or  learn'd  Poussin  drew." 

He  turns  aside  to  view  a  country-gentleman's  seat  with  eager 
looks,  thinking  it  may  contain  some  of  the  rich  products  of  art. 
There  is  an  air  round  Lord  Radnor's  park,  for  there  hang  the 
two  Claudes,  the  Morning  and  Evening  of  the  Roman  Empire — 
round  Wilton-house,  for  there  is  Vandyke's  picture  of  the  Pem- 
broke family — round  Blenheim,  for  there  is  his  picture  of  the 
Duke  of  Buckingham's  children  and  the  most  magnificent  col- 
lection  of  Rubenses  in  the  world — at  Knowsley,  for  there  is 
Rembrandt's  Hand-writing  on  the  Wall — and  at  Burleigh,  for 
there  are  some  of  Guido's  angelic  heads.  The  young  artist 
makes  a  pilgrimage  to  each  of  these  places,  eyes  them  wist- 
fully at  a  distance,  "  bosomed  high  in  tufted  trees,"  and  feels 
an  interest  in  them  of  which  the  owner  is  scarce  conscious :  he 
enters  the  well-swept  walks  and  echoing  archways,  passes  the 
threshold,  is  led  through  wainscotted  rooms,  is  shown  the  furni- 
ture, the  rich  hangings,  the  tapestry,  the  massy  services  of  plate 
— and,  at  last,  is  ushered  into  the  room  where  his  treasure  is, 
the  object  of  his  vows — some  speaking  face  or  bright  landscape  ! 
It  is  stamped  on  his  brain,  and  lives  there  thenceforward,  a  clue 
to  nature,  and  a  test  of  art.  He  furnishes  out  the  chambers  of  the 
mind  from  the  spoils  of  time,  picks  and  chooses  which  shall  have 
the  best  places — nearest  his  heart.  He  goes  away  richer  than 
he  came,  richer  than  the  possessor ;  and  thinks  that  he  may  one 
day  return,  when  he  perhaps  shall  have  done  something  of  the 


THE  PLEASURE  OF  PAINTING.  13 


same  kind,  or  even  from  failure  shall  have  learned  to  admire 
truth  and  genius  more. 

My  first  initiation  in  the  mysteries  of  the  art  was  at  the  Or- 
leans Gallery :  it  was  there  I  formed  my  taste,  such  as  it  is ;  so 
that  I  am  irreclaimably  of  the  old  school  in  painting.  I  was  stag- 
gered  when  I  saw  the  works  there  collected,  and  looked  at  them 
with  wondering  and  with  longing  eyes.  A  mist  passed  away 
from  my  sight :  the  scales  fell  off.  A  new  sense  came  upon  me, 
a  new  heaven  and  a  new  earth  stood  before  me.  I  saw  the  soul 
speaking  in  the  face, — "  hands  that  the  rod  of  empire  had  swayed" 
in  mighty  ages  past — "  a  forked  mountain  or  blue  promontory," 

"  with  trees  upon't 


That  nod  unto  the  world,  and  mock  our  eyes  with  air." 

Old  Time  had  unlocked  his  treasures  and  Fame  stood  portress 
at  the  door. '  We  had  all  heard  of  the  names  of  Titian,  Raphael, 
Guido,  Domenichino,  the  Caracci — but  to  see  them  face  to  face, 
to  be  in  the  same  room  with  their  deathless  productions,  was  like 
breaking  some  potent  spell — was  almost  an  effect  of  necromancy  ! 
From  that  time  I  lived  in  a  world  of  pictures.  Battles,  sieges, 
speeches  in  parliament,  seemed  mere  idle  noise  and  fury,  "sig- 
nifying nothing,"  compared  with  those  mighty  works  and  dreaded 
names  that  spoke  to  me  in  the  eternal  silence  of  thought.  This 
was  the  more  remarkable,  as  it  was  but  a  short  time  before  that 
I  was  not  only  totally  ignorant  of  but  insensible  to  the  beauties  of 
art.  As  an  instance,  I  remember  that  one  afternoon  I  was  read- 
ing the  Provoked  Husband  with  the  highest  relish,  with  a  green 
woody  landscape  of  Ruysdael  or  Hobbima  just  before  me,  at 
which  I  looked  off  the  book  now  and  then,  and  wondered  what 
there  could  be  in  that  sort  of  work  to  satisfy  or  delight  the  mind, 
at  the  same  time  asking  myself,  as  a  speculative  question,  whether 
I  should  ever  feel  an  interest  in  it  like  what  I  took  in  reading 
Vanbrugh  and  Cibber  ? 

I  had  made  some  progress  in  painting  when  I  went  to  the 
Louvre  to  study,  and  I  never  did  any  thing  afterwards.  I 
never  shall  forget  conning  over  the  Catalogue  which  a  friend 
tent  me  just  before  I  set  out.  The  pictures,  the  names  of 
the  painters,  seemed  to   relish  in  the  mouth.     There  was  one 


14  TABLE  TALK. 


of  Titian's  Mistress  at  her  toilette.  Even  the  colours  with 
which  the  painter  had  adorned  her  hair  were  not  more  golden, 
more  amiable  to  sight,  than  those  which  played  round  and 
tantalized  my  fancy  ere  I  saw  the  picture.  There  were  two 
portraits  by  the  same  hand — "  A  young  nobleman  with  a  glove" 
— another,  "  a  Companion  to  it" — I  read  the  description  over 
and  over  with  fond  expectancy,  and  filled  up  the  imaginary  out- 
line with  whatever  I  could  conceive  of  grace  and  dignity  and  an 
antique  gusto — all  but  equal  to  the  original.  There  was  the 
Transfiguration  too.  With  what  awe  I  saw  it  in  my  mind's  eye, 
and  was  overshadowed  with  the  spirit  of  the  artist !  Not  to  have 
been  disappointed  with  these  works  afterwards,  was  the  highest 
compliment  I  can  pay  to  their  transcendent  merits.  Indeed,  it 
was  from  seeing  other  works  of  the  same  great  masters  that  I  had 
formed  a  vague,  but  no  disparaging  idea  of  these. — The  first  day 
I  got  there,  I  was  kept  for  some  time  in  the  French  Exhibition- 
room,  and  thought  I  should  not  be  able  to  get  a  sight  of  the  Old 
Masters.  I  just  caught  a  peep  at  them  through  the  door  (vile 
hindrance !)  like  looking  out  of  purgatory  into  paradise — from 
Poussin's  noble  mellow-looking  landscapes  to  where  Rubens  hung 
out  his  gaudy  banner,  and  down  the  glimmering  vista  to  the  rich 
jewels  of  Titian  and  the  Italian  school.  At  last,  by  much  im- 
portunity, I  was  admitted,  and  lost  not  an  instant  in  making  use 
of  my  new  privilege.  It  was  un  beau  jour  to  me.  I  marched 
delighted  through  a  quarter  of  a  mile  of  the  proudest  efforts  of 
the  mind  of  man,  a  whole  creation  of  genius,  a  universe  of  art ! 
I  ran  the  gauntlet  of  all  the  schools  from  the  bottom  to  the  top ; 
and  in  the  end  got  admitted  into  the  inner  room,  where  they  had 
been  repairing  some  of  their  greatest  works.  Here  the  Trans- 
figuration, the  St.  Peter  Martyr,  and  the  St.  Jerome  of  Domeni- 
chino,  stood  on  the  floor,  as  if  they  had  bent  their  knees,  like 
camels  stooping,  to  unlade  their  riches  to  the  spectator.  On  one 
side,  on  an  easel,  stood  Hippolito  de  Medici  (a  portrait  by  Titian) 
with  a  boar-spear  in  his  hand,  looking  through  those  he  saw,  till 
you  turned  away  from  the  keen  glance :  and  thrown  together  in 
heaps  were  landscapes  of  the  same  hand,  green  pastoral  hills 
and  vales,  and  shepherds  piping  to  their  mild  mistresses  under- 
neath the  flowering  shade.-    Reader,  "if  thou  hast  not  seen  the 


THE  PLEASURE  OF  PAINTING.  15 

Louvre,  thou'rt  damned  !" — for  thou  hast  not  seen  the  choices! 
remains  of  the  works  of  art ;  or  thou  hast  not  seen  all  these  to 
gether,  with  their  mutually  reflected  glories.  I  say  nothing  of 
the  statues ;  for  I  know  but  little  of  sculpture,  and  never  liked 
any,  till  I  saw  the  Elgin  Marbles.  .  .Here,  for  four  months  to- 
gether, I  strolled  and  studied,  and  daily  heard  the  warning 
sounds — "  Quatre  heures  passtes,  il  faut  fermer,  citoyens" — (Ah! 
why  did  they  ever  changetheir  style  ?)  muttered  in  coarse  pro- 
vincial French  ;  and  brought  away  with  me  some  loose  draughts 
and  fragments,  which  I  have  been  forced  to  part  with,  like  drops 
of  life-blood,  for  "  hard  money."  How  often,  thou  tenantless 
mansion  of  godlike  magnificence — how  often  has  my  heart  sinc*- 
gone  a  pilgrimage  to  thee  ! 

It  has  been  made  a  question,  whether  the  artist,  or  the  mere 
man  of  taste  and  natural  sensibility,  receives  most  pleasure  from 
the  contemplation  of  works  of  art  ?  And  I  think  this  question 
might  be  answered  by  another  as  a  sort  of  experimentum  cruris, 
namely,  whether  any  one  out  of  that  "  number  numberless"  of 
mere  gentlemen  and  amateurs,  who  visited  Paris  at  the  period 
here  spoken  of,  felt  as  much  interest,  as  much  pride  or  pleasure, 
in  this  display  of  the  most  striking  monuments  of  art,  as  the 
humblest  student  would  ?  The  first  entrance  into  the  Louvre 
would  be  only  one  of  the  events  of  his  journey,  not  an  event  in 
his  life,  remembered  ever  after  with  thankfulness  and  regret. 
He  would  explore  it  with  the  same  unmeaning  curiosity  and  idle 
wonder  as  he  would  the  Regalia  in  the  Tower,  or  the  Botanic 
Specimens  in  the  Jardin  des  Plantes,  but  not  with  the  fond  en- 
thusiasm of  an  artist.  How  should  he  1  His  is  "  casual  frui- 
tion, joyless,  unendeared."  But  the  painter  is  wedded  to  his  art, 
the  mistress,  queen,  and  idol  of  his  soul.  He  has  embarked  his 
all  in  it,  fame,  time,  fortune,  peace  of  mind,  his  hopes  in  youth, 
his  consolation  in  age :  and  shall  he  not  feel  a  more  intense  in- 
terest in  whatever  relates  to  it  than  the  mere  indolent  trifler  ? 
Natural  sensibility  alone,  without  the  entire  application  of  the 
mind  to  that  one  object,  will  not  enable  the  possessor  to  sympa- 
thize with  all  the  degrees  of  beauty  and  power  in  the  conceptions 
of  a  Titian  or  a  Correggio ;  but  it  is  he  only  who  does  this,  who 
follows   them    into  all   their   force   and   matchless    grace,    that 


16  TABLE  TALK. 


does  or  can  feel  their  full  value.  Knowledge  is  pleasure  as 
well  as  power.  No  one  but  the  artist,  who  has  studied  nature 
and  contended  with  the  difficulties  of  art,  can  be  apprised  of 
the  beauties,  or  intoxicated  with  a  passion  for  painting.  No  one 
who  has  not  devoted  his  life  and  soul  to  the  pursuit  of  art,  can 
feel  the  same  exultation  in  its  brightest  ornaments  and  loftiest 
triumphs  which  an  artist  does.  Where  the  treasure  is,  there  the 
heart  is  also.  It  is  now  seventeen  years  since  I  was  studying  in 
the  Louvre  (and  I  have  long  since  given  up  all  thoughts  of  the 
art  as  a  profession),  but  long  after  I  returned,  and  even  still,  I 
sometimes  dream  of  being  there  again — of  asking  for  the  old 
pictures — and  not  finding  them,  or  finding  them  changed  or 
faded  from  what  they  were,  I  cry  myself  awake  !  What  gen- 
tleman-amateur ever  does  this  at  such  a  distance  of  time, — that 
is,  ever  received  pleasure  or  took  interest  enough  in  them  to  pro- 
duce so  lasting  an  impression  1 

But  it  is  said,  that  if  a  person  had  the  same  natural  taste,  and 
the  same  acquired  knowledge  as  an  artist,  without  the  petty  in- 
terests and  technical  notions,  he  would  derive  a  purer  pleasure 
from  seeing  a  fine  portrait,  a  fine  landscape,  and  so  on.  This 
however  is  not  so  much  begging  the  question  as  asking  an  im- 
possibility :  he  cannot  have  the  same  insight  into  the  end  without 
having  studied  the  means ;  nor  the  same  love  of  art  without  the 
same  habitual  and  exclusive  deference  to  it.  Painters  are,  no 
doubt,  often  actuated  by  jealousy,  partiality,  and  a  sordid  attention 
to  that  only  which  they  find  useful  to  themselves  in  painting. 
.Vilkie  has  been  seen  poring  over  the  texture  of  a  Dutch  cabinet- 
|  icture,  so  that  he  could  not  see  the  picture  itself.  But  this  is  the 
perversion  and  pedantry  of  the  profession,  not  its  true  or  genuine 
spirit.  If  Wilkie  had  never  looked  at  any  thing  but  megilps  and 
handling,  he  never  would  have  put  the  soul  of  life  and  manners 
into  his  pictures  as  he  has  done.  Another  objection  is,  that  the  in- 
strumental parts  of  the  art,  the  means,  the  first  rudiments,  paints, 
oils,  and  brushes,  are  painful  or  disgusting ;  and  that  the  con- 
sciousness of  the  difficulty  and  anxiety  with  which  perfection  has 
been  attained,  must  take  away  from  the  pleasure  of  the  finest  per- 
formance. This,  however,  is  only  an  additional  proof  of  the 
greater  pleasure  derived  by  the  artist  from  his  profession  j  for 


THE  PLEASURE  OF  PAINTING.  If 

these  things  which  are  said  to  interfere  with  and  destroy  the  com. 
mon  interest  in  works  of  art,  do  not  disturb  him ;  he  never 
once  thinks  of  them,  he  is  absorbed  in  the  pursuit  of  a  higher 
object ;  he  is  intent,  not  on  the  means  but  on  the  end  ;  he  is  taken 
jp,  not  with  the  difficulties,  but  with  the  triumph  over  them.  As 
in  the  case  of  the  anatomist,  who  overlooks  many  things  in  the 
eagerness  of  his  search  after  abstract  truth ;  or  the  alchemist 
who,  while  he  is  raking  into  his  soot  and  furnaces,  lives  in  a  golden 
dream — a  lesser  gives  way  to  a  greater  object.  But  it  is  pretended 
that  the  painter  may  be  supposed  10  submit  to  the  unpleasant  part 
of  the  process  only  for  the  sake  of  the  fame  or  profit  in  view.  So 
far  is  this  from  bemg  a  true  slate  of  the  case,  that  I  will  venture 
to  say,  in  the  instance  of  a  friend  of  mine  who  has  lately  succeeded 
in  an  important  undertaking  in  his  art,  that  not  all  the  fame  he  has 
acquired,  not  all  the  money  he  has  received  from  thousands  of 
admiring  spectators,  not  all  the  newspaper  puffs, — nor  even  the 
praise  of  the  Edinburgh  Review, — not  all  these,  put  together,  ever 
gave  him  at  any  time  the  same  genuine,  undoubted  satisfaction  as 
any  one  half-hour  employed  in  the  ardent  and  propitious  pursuit 
of  his  art — in  finishing  to  his  heart's  content  a  foot,  a  hand,  or 
even  a  piece  of  drapery.  What  is  the  state  of  mind  of  an  artist 
while  he  is  at  work  ?  He  is  then  in  the  act  of  realizing  the 
highest  idea  he  can  form  of  beauty  or  grandeur :  he  conceives,  he 
embodies  that  which  he  understands  and  loves  best :  that  is,  he  is 
in  full  and  perfect  possession  of  that  which  is  to  him  the  source 
of  the  highest  happiness  and  intellectual  excitement  which  he  can 
enjoy. 

In  short,  as  a  conclusion  to  this  argument,  I  will  mention  a 
circumstance  which  fell  under  my  knowledge  the  other  day.  A 
friend  had  bought  a  print  of  Titian's  Mistress,  the  same  to  which 
I  have  alluded  above.  He  was  anxious  to  show  it  me  on  this  ac- 
count. I  told  him  it  was  a  spirited  engraving,  but  it  had  not  the 
look  of  the  original.  I  believe  he  thought  this  fastidious,  till  1 
offered  to  shew  him  a  rough  sketch  of  it,  which  I  had  by  me. 
Having  seen  this,  he  said  he  perceived  exactly  what  1  meant, 
and  could  not  bear  to  look  at  the  print  afterwards.  He  had  good 
sense  enough  to  see  the  difference  in  the  individual  instance  ; 
but  a  person  better  acquainted  with  Titian's  manner  and  with 

2 


18  TABLE  TALK. 

art  in  general,  that  is,  of  a  more  cultivated  and  refined  taste, 
would  know  that  it  was  a  bad  print,  without  having  any  immedi- 
ate model  to  compare  it  with.  He  would  perceive  with  a  glance 
of  the  eye,  with  a  sort  of  instinctive  feeling,  that  it  was  hard,  and 
without  that  bland,  expansive,  and  nameless  expression  which 
always  distinguished  Titian's  most  famous  works.  Any  one  who 
is  accustomed  to  a  head  in  a  picture  can  never  reconcile  himself 
to  a  print  from  it :  but  to  the  ignorant  they  are  both  the  same. 
To  a  vulgar  eye  there  is  no  difference  between  a  Guido  and  a 
daub,  between  a  penny-print  or  the  vilest  scrawl,  and  the  most 
finished  performance.  In  other  words,  all  that  excellence  which 
lies  between  these  two  extremes, — all,  at  least,  that  marks 
the  excess  above  mediocrity, — all  that  constitutes  true  beauty, 
harmony,  refinement,  grandeur,  is  lost  upon  the  common  ob- 
server. But  it  is  from  this  point  that  the  delight,  the  glowing 
raptures  of  the  true  adept  commence.  An  uninformed  spec- 
tator may  like  an  ordinary  drawing  better  than  the  ablest  con- 
noisseur ;  but  for  that  very  reason  he  cannot  like  the  highest 
specimens  of  art  so  well.  The  refinements,  not  only  of  execu- 
tion, but  of  truth  and  nature,  are  inaccessible  to  unpractised  eyes. 
The  exquisite  gradations  in  a  sky  of  Claude's  are  not  perceived 
by  such  persons,  and  consequently  the  harmony  cannot  be  felt. 
Where  there  is  no  conscious  apprehension,  there  can  be  no  con- 
scious pleasure.  Wonder  at  the  first  sight  of  works  of  art  may 
be  the  effect  of  ignorance  and  novelty  ;  but  real  admiration  and 
permanent  delight  in  them  are  the  growth  of  taste  and  know- 
ledge. "  I  would  not  wish  to  have  your  eyes,"  said  a  good-na- 
tured man  to  a  critic,  who  was  finding  fault  with  a  picture,  in 
which  the  other  saw  no  blemish.  Why  so  ?  The  idea  which 
prevented  him  from  admiring  this  inferior  production  was  a  higher 
idea  of  truth  and  beauty  which  was  ever  present  with  him,  and 
a  continual  source  of  pleasing  and  lofty  contemplations.  It  may 
be  different  in  a  taste  for  outward  luxuries  and  the  privations  of 
mere  sense  ;  but  the  idea  of  perfection,  which  acts  as  an  intellec- 
tual foil,  is  always  an  addition,  a  support,  and  a  proud  consolation ! 
Richardson,  in  his  Essays,  which  ought  to  be  better  known, 
has  left  some  striking  examples  of  the  felicity  and  infelicity  of 
artists,  both  as  it  relates  to  their  external  fortune,  and  to  the  prao- 


THE  PLEASURE  OF  PAINTING.  19 

tice  of  their  art.  In  speaking  of  the  knowledge  of  hands,  he  ex- 
claims— "  When  one  is  considering  a  picture  or  a  drawing,  one 
at  the  same  time  thinks  this  was  done  by  him*  who  had  many 
extraordinary  endowments  of  body  and  mind,  but  was  withal  very 
capricious ;  who  was  honoured  in  life  and  death,  expiring  in  the 
arms  of  one  of  the  greatest  princes  of  that  age,  Francis  I.,  king 
of  France,  who  loved  him  as  a  friend.  Another  is  of  himf  who 
lived  a  long  and  happy  life,  beloved  of  Charles  V.,  emperor ;  and 
many  others  of  the  first  princes  of  Europe.  When  one  has  an- 
other in  hand,  we  think  this  was  done  by  one:):  who  so  excelled  in 
three  arts,  as  that  any  of  them  in  that  degree  had  rendered  him 
worthy  of  immortality ;  and  one  moreover  that  durst  contend 
with  his  sovereign  (one  of  the  haughtiest  popes  that  ever  was) 
upon  a  slight  offered  to  him,  and  extricated  himself  with  honour. 
Another  is  the  work  of  him§  who,  without  any  one  exterior  ad- 
vantage but  mere  strength  of  genius,  had  the  most  sublime  imagi- 
nations, and  executed  them  accordingly,  yet  lived  and  died  ob- 
scurely. Another  we  shall  consider  as  the  work  of  him||  who 
restored  Painting  when  it  had  almost  sunk ;  of  him  whom  art 
made  honourable,  but  who  neglecting  and  despising  greatness 
with  a  sort  of  cynical  pride,  was  treated  suitably  to  the  figure  he 
gave  himself,  not  his  intrinsic  worth  :  which,  not  having  philoso- 
phy enough  to  bear  it,  broke  his  heart.  Another  is  done  by  onelT 
who  (on  the  contrary)  was  a  fine  gentleman  and  lived  in  great 
magnificence,  and  was  much  honoured  by  his  own  and  foreign 
princes  ;  who  was  a  courtier,  a  statesman,  and  a  painter  ;  and 
so  much  all  these,  that  when  he  acted  in  either  character,  tliat 
seemed  to  be  his  business,  and  the  others  his  diversion.  I  say 
when  one  thus  reflects,  besides  the  pleasure  arising  from  the 
beauties  and  excellencies  of  the  work,  the  fine  ideas  it  gives  us 
of  natural  things,  the  noble  way  of  thinking  it  may  suggest  to  us, 
an  additional  pleasure  results  from  the  above  considerations.  But, 
oh !  the  pleasure,  when  a  connoisseur  and  lover  of  art  has  before 
him  a  picture  or  drawing,  of  which  he  can  say,  this  is  the  hand, 
.hese  are  the  thoughts  of  him**  who  was  one  of  the  politest,  best- 

*  Leonardo  da  Vinci.  t  Titian.  1  Michael  Angela. 

§  Correggio.  I!  Annibal  Caracci.  IT  Rubens 

**  Rafaelie. 


26  TABLE  TALK. 


natured  gentlemen  that  ever  was  ;  and  beloved  and  assisted  by 
the  greatest  wits  and  the  greatest  men  then  in  Rome  :  of  him  who 
lived  in  great  fame,  honour,  and  magnificence,  and  died  extremely 
lamented  :  and  missed  a  cardinal's  hat  only  by  dying  a  few  months 
too  soon  ;  but  was  particularly  esteemed  and  favoured  by  two 
popes,  the  only  ones  who  filled  the  chair  of  St.  Peter  in  his  time, 
and  as  great  men  as  ever  sat  there  since  that  apostle,  if  at  leas 
he  ever  did :  one,  in  short,  who  could  have  been  a  Leonardo,  a 
Michael  Angelo,  a  Titian,  a  Correggio,  a  Parmegiano,  an  Anni- 
bal,  a  Rubens,  or  any  other  whom  he  pleased,  but  none  of  them 
could  ever  have  been  a  Rafaelle." 

The  same  writer  speaks  feelingly  of  the  change  in  the  style  of 
different  artists  from  their  change  of  fortune,  and  as  the  circum- 
stances are  little  known,  I  will  quote  the  passage  relating  to  two 
of  them  : 

"  Guido  Reni,  from  a  prince-like  affluence  of  fortune  (the  just 
reward  of  his  angelic  works),  fell  to  a  condition  like  that  of  a 
hired  servant  to  one  who  supplied  him  with  money  for  what  he 
did  at  a  fixed  rate  ;  and  that  by  his  being  bewitched  with  a  pas- 
sion for  gaming,  whereby  he  lost  vast  sums  of  money  ;  and  even 
what  he  got  in  this  his  state  of  servitude  by  day,  he  commonly 
lost  at  night :  nor  could  he  ever  be  cured  of  this  cursed  madness. 
Those  of  his  works,  therefore,  which  he  did  in  this  unhappy  part 
of  his  life,  may  easily  be  conceived  to  be  in  a  different  style  to 
what  he  did  before,  which  in  some  things,  that  is,  in  the  airs  of 
his  heads  (in  the  gracious  kind),  had  a  delicacy  in  them  peculiar 
to  himself,  and  almost  more  than  human.  But  I  must  not  multi- 
ply instances.  Parmegiano  is  one  that  alone  takes  in  all  the 
several  kinds  of  variation,  and  all  the  degrees  of  goodness,  from 
the  lowest  of  the  indifferent  up  to  the  sublime.  I  can  produce 
evident  proofs  of  this  in  so  easy  a  gradation,  that  one  cannot  deny 
but  that  he  that  did  this,  might  do  that,  and  very  probably  did  so 
and  thus  one  may  ascend  and  descend,  like  the  angels  on  Jacob' 
ladder,  whose  foot  was  upon  the  earth,  but  its  top  reached  to 
heaven. 

"  And  this  great  man  had  his  unlucky  circumstance :  he  be 
came  mad  after  the  philosopher's  stone,  and  did  but  very  little  in 
painting  or  drawing  afterwards.      Judge  what  that  was,  and 


THE  PLEASURE  OF  PAINTING.  21 

whether  there  was  not  an  alteration  of  style  from  what  he  had 
done  before  this  devil  possessed  him.  His  creditors  endeavoured 
to  exorcise  him,  and  did  him  some  good,  for  he  set  himself  to 
work  again  in  his  own  way :  but  if  a  drawing  I  have  of  a  Lu- 
cretia  be  that  he  made  for  his  last  picture,  as  it  probably  is  (Va- 
sari  says  that  was  the  subject  of  it),  it  is  an  evident  proof  of  his 
decay  :  it  is  good  indeed,  but  it  wants  much  of  the  delicacy  which 
is  commonly  seen  in  his  works ;  and  so  I  always  thought  before 
I  knew  or  imagined  it  to  be  done  in  his  ebb  of  genius." — Science 
of  a  Connoisseur. 

We  have  had  two  artists  of -our  own  country,  whose  fate  has 
been  as  singular  as  it  was  hard.  Gandy  was  a  portrait-painter 
in  the  beginning  of  the  last  century,  whose  heads  were  said  to 
have  come  near  to  Rembrandt's ;  and  he  was  the  undoubted  pro- 
totype  of  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds's  style.  Yet  his  name  has  scarce- 
ly been  heard  of;  and  his  reputation,  like  his  works,  never  ex- 
tended beyond  his  native  county.  What  did  he  think  of  himself 
and  of  a  fame  so  bounded  !  Did  he  ever  dream  he  was  indeed 
an  artist  1  Or  how  did  this  feeling  in  him  differ  from  the  vulgar 
conceit  of  the  lowest  pretender  ?  The  best  known  of  his  works 
is  a  portrait  of  an  alderman  of  Exeter,  in  some  public  building 
in  that  city. 

Poor  Dan  Stringer !  Forty  years  ago  he  had  the  finest  hand 
and  the  clearest  eye  of  any  artist  of  his  time,  and  produced 
heads  and  drawings  that  would  not  have  disgraced  a  brighter 
period  in  the  art.  But  he  fell  a  martyr  (like  Burns)  to  the  soci- 
ety of  country-gentlemen,  and  then  of  those  whom  they  would 
consider  as  more  his  equals.  I  saw  him  many  years  ago  when 
he  treated  the  masterly  sketches  he  had  by  him  (one  in  particu- 
lar of  the  group  of  citizens  in  Shakspear  "  swallowing  the  tailor's 
news")  as  "  bastards  of  his  genius,  not  his  children  ;"  and  seemed 
to  have  given  up  all  thoughts  of  his  art.  Whether  he  is  since 
dead,  I  cannot  say :  the  world  do  not  so  much  as  know  that  he 
ever  lived! 


23  TABLE  TALK. 


ESSAY  III. 

On  the  Past  and  Future. 

I  have  naturally  but  little  imagination,  and  am  not  of  a  very- 
sanguine  turn  of  mind.  I  have  some  desire  to  enjoy  the  present 
good,  and  some  fondness  for  the  past ;  but  I  am  not  at  all  given 
to  building  castles  in  the  air,  nor  to  look  forward  with  much  con- 
fidence or  hope  to  the  brilliant  illusions  held  out  by  the  future. 
Hence  I  have  perhaps  been  led  to  form  a  theory,  which  is  very 
contrary  to  the  common  notions  and  feelings  on  the  subject,  and 
which  I  will  here  try  to  explain  as  well  as  I  can. — When  Sterne 
in  the  Sentimental  Journey  told  the  French  Minister  that  if  the 
French  people  had  a  fault,  it  was  that  they  were  too  serious,  the 
latter  replied  that  if  that  was  his  opinion,  he  must  defend  it  with 
all  his  might,  for  he  would  have  all  the  world  against  him ;  so  1 
shall  have  enough  to  do  to  get  well  through  the  present  argu- 
ment. 

I  cannot  see,  then,  any  rational  or  logical  ground  for  that 
mighty  difference  in  the  value  which  mankind  generally  set  upon 
the  past  and  future,  as  if  the  one  was  every  thing,  and  the  other 
nothing,  of  no  consequence  whatever.  On  the  other  hand,  I  con- 
ceive that  the  past  is  as  real  and  substantial  a  part  of  our  being, 
that  it  is  as  much  a  bona  fide,  undeniable  consideration  in  the  esti- 
mate of  human  life,  as  the  future  can  possibly  be.  To  say  that 
the  past  is  of  no  importance,  unworthy  of  a  moment's  regard,  be- 
cause it  has  gone  by,  and  is  no  longer  any  thing,  is  an  argument 
that  cannot  be  held  to  any  purpose :  for  if  the  past  has  ceased 
to  be,  and  is  therefore  to  be  accounted  nothing  in  the  scale  of  good 
or  evii,  the  future  is  yet  to  come,  and  has  never  been  any  thing. 
Should  any  one  choose  to  assert  that  the  present  only  is  of  any 
value  in  a  strict  and  positive  sense,  because  that  alone  has  a  real 
existence,  that  we  should  seize  the  instant  good,  and  give  all  else 


THE  PAST  AND  FUTURE.  23 

to  the  winds,  I  can  understand  what  he  means  (though  pernaps  he 
does  not  himself*) :  but  I  cannot  comprehend  how  this  distinction 
between  that  which  has  a  downright  and  sensible,  and  that  which 
has  only  a  remote  and  airy  existence,  can  be  applied  to  establish 
the  preference  of  the  future  over  the  past ;  for  both  are  in  this 
point  of  view  equally  ideal,  absolutely  nothing,  except  as  they  are 
conceived  of  by  the  mind's  eye,  and  are  thus  rendered  present  to 
the  thoughts  and  feelings.  Nay,  the  one  is  even  more  imaginary, 
a  more  fantastic  creature  of  the  brain  than  the  other,  and  the  in- 
terest we  take  in  it  more  shadowy  and  gratuitous  ;  for  the  future, 
on  which  we  lay  so  much  stress,  may  never  come  to  pass  at  all, 
that  is,  may  never  be  embodied  into  actual  existence  in  the  whole 
course  of  events,  whereas  the  past  has  certainly  existed  once,  has 
received  the  stamp  of  truth,  and  left  an  image  of  itself  behind. 
It  is  so  far  then  placed  beyond  the  possibility  of  doubt,  or  as  the 
poet  has  it, 

"  Those  joys  are  lodg'd  beyond  the  reach  of  fate." 

It  is  not,  however,  attempted  to  be  denied  that  though  the  future  is 
nothing  at  present,  and  has  no  immediate  interest  while  we  are 
speaking,  yet  it  is  of  the  utmost  consequence  in  itself,  and  of  the 
utmost  interest  to  the  individual,  because  it  will  have  a  real  exis- 
tence, and  we  have  an  idea  of  it  as  existing  in  time  to  come. 
Well,  then,  the  past  also  has  no  real  existence  ;  the  actual  sensa- 
tion and  the  interest  belonging  to  it  are  both  fled  ;  but  it  has  had 
a  real  existence,  and  we  can  still  call  up  a  vivid  recollection  of  it 
as  having  once  been  ;  and  therefore,  by  parity  of  reasoning,  it  is 
not  a  thing  perfectly  insignificant  in  itself,  nor  wholly  indifferent  to 
the  mind,  whether  it  ever  was  or  not.  Oh  no !  Far  from  it ! 
Let  us  not  rashly  quit  our  hold  upon  the  past,  when  perhaps  there 
may  be  little  else  left  to  bind  us  to  existence.  It  is  nothing  to 
have  been,  and  to  have  been  happy  or  miserable  ?     Or  is  it  a 

*  If  we  take  away  from  the  present  the  moment  that  is  just  gone  by  and  the 
moment  that  is  next  to  come,  how  much  of  it  will  be  left  for  this  plain,  prac- 
tical theory  to  rest  uponl  Their  solid  basis  of  sense  and  reality  will  reduce 
itself  to  a  pin's  point,  a  hair-line,  on  which  our  moral  balance-masters  will 
have  some  difficulty  to  maintain  their  footing  without  falling  over  on  either 
side. 


34  TABLE  TALK. 


matter  of  no  moment  to  think  whether  I  have  been  one  or  the 
other  ?  Do  I  delude  myself,  do  I  build  upon  a  shadow  or  a  dream, 
do  I  dress  up  in  the  gaudy  garb  of  idleness  and  folly  a  pure  fiction, 
with  nothing  answering  to  it  in  the  universe  of  things  and  the 
records  of  truth,  when  I  look  back  with  fond  delight  or  with  tender 
regret  to  that  which  was  at  one  time  to  me  my  all,  when  I  revive 
the  glowing  image  of  some  bright  reality, 

"  The  thoughts  of  which  cai\  never  from  my  heart  V 

Do  I  then  muse  on  nothing,  do  I  bend  my  eyes  on  nothing,  when  I 
turn  back  in  fancy  to  "  those  suns  and  skies  so  pure"  that  lighted 
up  my  early  path  ?  Is  it  to  think  of  nothing,  to  set  an  idle  value 
upon  nothing,  to  think  of  all  that  has  happened  to  me,  and  of  all 
that  can  ever  interest  me  ?  Or,  to  use  the  language  of  a  fine 
poet  (who  is  himself  among  my  earliest  and  not  least  painful  re- 
collections)— 

"  What  though  the  radiance  which  was  once  so  bright 

Be  now  for  ever  vanish'd  from  my  sight. 

Though  nothing  can  bring  back  the  hour 

Of  glory  in  the  grass,  of  splendour  in  the  flower" — 

yet  am  I  mocked  with  a  lie,  when  I  venture  to  think  of  it  ?  Or  do 
I  not  drink  in  and  breathe  again  the  air  of  heavenly  truth,  when  1 
but  "  retrace  its  footsteps,  and  its  skirts  far  off  adore  ?"  I  cannot 
say  with  the  same  poet — 

"  And  see  how  dark  the  backward  stream, 
A  little  moment  past  so  smiling" — 

for  it  is  the  past  that  gives  me  most  delight  and  most  assurance 
of  reality.  What  to  me  constitutes  the  great  charm  of  the  Con- 
fessions of  Rousseau  is  their  turning  so  much  upon  this  feeling. 
He  seems  to  gather  up  the  past  moments  of  his  being  like  drops 
ef  honey-dew  to  distil  a  precious  liquor  from  them ;  his  alternate 
pleasures  and  pains  are  the  bead-roll  that  he  tells  over,  and  pi- 
ously worships  ;  he  makes  a  rosary  of  the  flowers  of  hope  and 
fancy  that  strewed  his  earliest  years.  When  he  begins  the  last 
of  the  Reveries  of  a  Solitary  Walker,  "  lly  a  aujoiird'hui,  jour  des 


THE  PAST  AND  FUTURE. 


Pdques  Fleures,  cinquante  ans  depuis  quefai  premier  vu  Ma- 
dame Warens,"  what  a  yearning  of  the  soul  is  implied  in  that 
short  sentence  !  Was  all  that  had  happened  to  him,  all  that  he 
had  thought  and  felt  in  that  sad  interval  of  time,  to  be  accounted 
nothing  ?  Was  that  long,  dim,  faded  retrospect  of  years  happy 
or  miserable,  a  blank  that  was  not  to  make  his  eyes  fail  and  his 
heart  faint  within  him  in  trying  to  grasp  all  that  had  once  vanish, 
ed,  because  it  was  not  a  prospect  into  futurity  ?  Was  he  wrong 
in  finding  more  to  interest  him  in  it  than  in  the  next  fifty  years — 
which  he  did  not  live  to  see  ;  or  if  he  had,  what  then  ?  Would 
they  have  been  worth  thinking  of,  compared  with  the  times  of 
his  youth,  of  his  first  meeting  with  Madame  Warens,  with  those 
times  which  he  has  traced  with  such  truth  and  pure  delight  "  in 
our  heart's  tables  ?"  When  "  all  the  life  of  life  was  flown,"  was 
he  not  to  live  the  first  and  best  part  of  it  over  again,  and  once 
more  be  all  that  he  then  was  ? — Ye  woods  that  crown  the  clear 
lone  brow  of  Norman-Court,  why  do  I  revisit  ye  so  oft,  and  feel 
a  soothing  consciousness  of  your  presence,  but  that  your  high 
tops  waving  in  the  wind  recall  to  me  the  hours  and  years  that 
are  forever  fled,  that  ye  renew  in  ceaseless  murmurs  the  story 
of  long-cherished  hopes  and  bitter  disappointment,  that  in  your 
solitudes  and  tangled  wilds  I  can  wander  and  lose  myself,  as  I 
wander  on  and  am  lost  in  the  solitude  of  my  own  heart  ;  and  that 
as  your  rustling  branches  give  the  loud  blast  to  the  waste  below 
— borne  on  the  thoughts  of  other  years,  I  ?an  look  down  with 
patient  anguish  at  the  cheerless  desolation  which  I  feel  within ! 
Without  that  face  pale  as  the  primrose  with  hyacinthine  locks, 
forever  shunning  and  forever  haunting  me,  mocking  my  waking 
thoughts  as  in  a  dream,  without  that  smile  which  my  heart  could 
never  turn  to  scorn,  without  those  eyes  dark  with  their  own  lus- 
tre, still  bent  on  mine,  and  drawing  the  soul  into  their  liquid 
mazes  like  a  sea  of  love,  without  that  name  trembling  in  fancy's 
ear,  without  that  form  gliding  before  me  like  Oread  or  Dryad  in 
fabled  groves,  what  should  I  do,  how  pass  the  listless,  leaden- 
footed  hours  ?  Then  wave,  wave  on,  ye  woods  of  Tuderley,  and 
lift  your  high  tops  in  the  air ;  my  sighs  and  vows  uttered  by 
your  mystic  voice  breathe  into  me  my  former  being,  and  enable 
me  to  bear  the  thing  I  am  ! — The  objects  that  we  have  known  in 

2* 


86  TABLE  TALK. 


better  days  are  the  main  props  that  sustain  the  weight  of  our  af 
fections,  and  give  us  strength  to  await  our  future  lot.  The  fu- 
ture is  like  a  dead  wall  or  a  thick  mist  hiding  all  objects  from 
our  view :  the  past  is  alive  and  stirring  with  objects,  bright  or 
solemn,  and  of  unfading  interest.  What  is  it  in  fact  that  we  re- 
cur to  oftenest  ?  What  subjects  do  we  think  or  talk  of?  Not 
the  ignorant  future,  but  the  well-stored  past.  Othello,  the  Moor 
of  Venice,  amused  himself  and  his  hearers  at  the  house  ofSignor 
Brabantio  by  "  running  through  the  story  of  his  life  even  from 
his  boyish  days ;"  and  oft  "  beguiled  them  of  their  tears,  when 
he  did  speak  of  some  disastrous  stroke  which  his  youth  suffered." 
This  plan  of  ingratiating  himself  would  not  have  answered,  if  the 
past  had  been,  like  the  contents  of  an  old  almanac,  of  no  use  but 
to  be  thrown  aside  and  forgotten.  What  a  blank,  for  instance, 
does  the  history  of  the  world  for  the  next  six  thousand  years  pre- 
sent to  the  mind,  compared  with  that  of  the  last !  All  that  strikes 
the  imagination  or  excites  any  interest  in  the  mighty  scene  is 
what  has  been  !* 

Neither  in  itself  then,  nor  as  a  subject  of  general  contempla- 
tion, has  the  future  any  advantage  over  the  past.  But  with 
respect  to  our  grosser  passions  and  pursuits  it  has.  As  far  as 
regards  the  appeal  to  the  understanding  or  the  imagination,  the 
past  is  just  as  good,  as  real,  of  as  much  intrinsic  and  ostensible 
value  as  the  future :  but  there  is  another  principle  in  the  human 
mind,  the  principle  of  action  or  will ;  and  of  this  the  past  has  no 
hold,  the  future  engrosses  it  entirely  to  itself.  It  is  this  strong 
lever  of  the  affections  that  gives  so  powerful  a  bias  to  our  senti- 
ments on  this  subject,  and  violently  transposes  the  natural  order 
of  our  associations.  We  regret  the  pleasures  we  have  lost,  and 
eagerly  anticipate  those  which  are  to  come :  we  dwell  with  satis- 
faction on  the  evils  from  which  we  have  escaped  (Posthcec  mend- 

*  A  treatise  on  the  Millennium  is  dull ;  but  who  was  ever  weary  of  reading 
the  fables  of  the  Golden  Age  7  On  my  once  observing  I  should  like  to  have 
been  Claude,  a  person  said,  "he  should  not,  for  that  then  it  would  by  tliis 
time  have  been  all  over  with  him."  As  if  it  could  possibly  signify  when  we 
live  (saving  and  excepting  the  present  minute),  or  as  if  the  value  of  human 
life  decreased  or  increased  with  successive  centuries.  At  that  rate,  we  had 
better  have  our  life  still  to  come  at  some  future  period,  and  so  postpone  our 
existence  century  after  century  ad  infinitum. 


THE  PAST  AND  FUTURE.  91 

msse  juvabit) — and  dread  future  pain.  The  good  that  is  past  is 
in  this  sense  like  money  that  is  spent,  which  is  of  no  further  use, 
and  about  which  we  give  ourselves  little  concern.  The  good  we 
expect  is  like  a  store  yet  untouched,  and  in  the  enjoyment  of 
which  we  promise  ourselves  infinite  gratification.  What  has 
happened  to  us  we  think  of  no  consequence :  what  is  to  happen 
to  us,  of  the  greatest.  Why  so  ?  Simply  because  the  one  is  still 
in  our  power,  and  the  other  not — because  the  efforts  of  the  will 
to  bring  any  object  to  pass  or  to  prevent  it  strengthen  our  attach- 
ment or  aversion  to  that  object — because  the  pains  and  attention 
bestowed  upon  any  thing  add  to  our  interest  in  it,  and  because 
the  habitual  and  earnest  pursuit  of  any  end  redoubles  the  ardour 
of  our  expectations,  and  converts  the  speculative  and  indolent 
satisfaction  we  might  otherwise  feel  in  it  into  real  passion.  Oui 
regrets,  anxiety,  and  wishes  are  thrown  away  upon  the  past ;  but 
the  insisting  on  the  importance  of  the  future  is  of  the  utmost  use 
in  aiding  our  resolutions,  and  stimulating  our  exertions.  If  the 
future  were  no  more  amenable  to  our  wills  than  the  past ;  if  our 
precautions,  our  sanguine  schemes,  our  hopes  and  fears,  were  of 
as  little  avail  in  the  one  case  as  in  the  other  ;  if  we  could  neither 
soften  our  minds  to  pleasure,  nor  steel  our  fortitude  to  the  resist- 
ance of  pain  beforehand  ;  if  all  objects  drifted  along  by  us  like 
straws  or  pieces  of  wood  in  a  river,  the  will  being  purely  passive, 
and  as  little  able  to  obviate  the  future  as  to  arrest  the  past,  we 
should  in  that  case  be  equally  indifferent  to  both ;  that  is,  we 
should  consider  each  as  it  affected  the  thoughts  and  imagination 
with  certain  sentiments  of  approbation  or  regret,  but  without  the 
importunity  of  desire,  the  irritation  of  the  will,  throwing  the 
whole  weight  of  passion  and  prejudice  into  one  scale,  and  leaving 
the  other  quite  empty.  While  the  blow  is  coming,  we  prepare 
to  ment  it,  we  think  to  ward  off  or  break  its  force,  we  arm  our- 
selves rith  patience  to  endure  what  cannot  be  avoided,  we  agitate 
ourselves  with  fifty  needless  alarms  about  it ;  but  when  the  blow 
is  onoe  •  truck,  the  pang  is  over,  the  struggle  is  no  longer  neces- 
sary, an  1  we  cease  to  harass  or  torment  ourselves  about  it  more 
than  we  can  help.  It  is  not  that  the  one  belongs  to  the  future, 
and  the  ither  to  time  past ;  but  that  the  one  is  a  subject  of  action, 
of  une-f  y  apprehension,  of  strong  passion,  and  that  the  other  has 


28  TABLE  TALK. 


passed  wholly  out  of  the  sphere  of  action  into  the  region  of  re- 
flection— 

"  Calm  pleasures  there  abide,  majestic  pains."  * 

It  would  not  give  a  man  more  concern  to  know  that  he  should  be  put 
to  the  rack  a  year  hence,  than  to  recollect  that  he  had  been  put  to 
it  a  year  ago,  but  that  he  hopes  to  avoid  the  one,  whereas  he  must 
sit  down  patiently  under  the  consciousness  of  the  other.  In  this 
hope  he  wears  himself  out  in  vain  struggles  with  fate,  and  puts  him- 
self to  the  rack  of  his  imagination  every  day  he  has  to  live  in  the 
mean  while.  When  the  event  is  so  remote  or  so  independent  of 
the  will  as  to  set  aside  the  necessity  of  immediate  action,  or  to 
baffle  all  attempts  to  defeat  it,  it  gives  us  little  more  disturbance 
or  emotion  than  if  it  had  already  taken  place,  or  were  something 
to  happen  in  another  state  of  being,  or  to  an  indifferent  person. 
Criminals  are  observed  to  grow  more  anxious  as  their  trial  ap- 
proaches ;  but  after  the  sentence  is  passed,  they  become  tolerably 
resigned,  and  generally  sleep  sound  the  night  before  its  execution. 
It  in  some  measure  confirms  this  theory,  that  men  attach  more 
or  less  importance  to  past  and  future  events,  according  as  they 
are  more  or  less  engaged  in  action  and  the  busy  scenes  of  life. 
Those  who  have  a  fortune  to  make  or  are  in  pursuit  of  rank  and 
power  think  little  of  the  past,  for  it  does  not  contribute  greatly  to 
their  views :  those  who  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  think,  take 
nearly  the  same  interest  in  the  past  as  in  the  future.  The  con- 
templation of  the  one  is  as  delightful  and  real  as  that  of  the  other. 
The  season  of  hope  has  an  end ;  but  the  remembrance  of  it  is 
left.  The  past  still  lives  in  the  memory  of  those  who  have  leisure 
to  look  back  upon  the  way  that  they  have  trod,  and  can  from  it 
"  catch  glimpses  that  may  make  them  less  forlorn."  The  tur. 
bulence  of  action,  and  uneasiness  of  desire,  must  point  to  the 
future  :  it  is  only  in  the  quiet  innocence  of  shepherds,  in  the  sim- 

*  In  like  manner,  though  we  know  that  an  event  must  have  taken  place  at 
a  distance,  long  before  we  can  hear  the  result,  yet  as  long  as  we  remain  in 
ignorance  of  it,  we  irritate  ourselves  about  it,  and  suffer  all  the  agonies  of  sus- 
pense, as  if  it  were  still  to  come ;  but  as  soon  as  our  uncertainty  is  removed, 
our  fretful  impatience  vanishes,  we  resign  ourselves  to  fate,  and  make  up  our 
minds  to  what  has  happened  as  well  as  we  can. 


THE  PAST  AND  FUTURE.  29 

plicity  of  pastoral  ages,  that  a  tomb  was  found  with  this  inscrip- 
tion  "  I  ALSO  WAS  AN  ARCADIAN  !" 

Though  I  by  no  means  think  that  our  habitual  attachment  to 
life  is  in  exact  proportion  to  the  value  of  the  gift,  yet  I  am  not 
one  of  those  splenetic  persons  who  affect  to  think  it  of  no  value 
at  all.  Que  peu  de  chose  est  la  vie  humaine — is  an  exclamation  in 
the  mouths  of  satirists  and  philosophers,  to  which  I  cannot  agree. 
It  is  little,  it  is  short,  it  is  not  worth  having,  if  we  take  the  last 
hour,  and  leave  out  all  that  has  gone  before,  which  has  been  one 
way  of  looking  at  the  subject.  Such  calculators  seem  to  say 
that  life  is  nothing  when  it  is  over,  and  that  may  in  their  sense  be 
true.  If  the  old  rule — Respice  Jinem — were  to  be  made  absolute, 
and  no  one  could  be  pronounced  fortunate  till  the  day  of  his 
death,  there  are  few  among  us  whose  existence  would,  upon  these 
conditions,  be  much  to  be  envied.  But  this  is  not  a  fair  view  of 
the  case.  A  man's  life  is  his  whole  life,  not  the  last  glimmering 
snuff  of  the  candle ;  and  this,  I  say,  is  considerable,  and  not  a 
Utile  matter,  whether  we  regard  its  pleasures  or  its  pains.  To 
draw  a  peevish  conclusion  to  the  contrary  from  our  own  super- 
annuated desires  or  forgetful  indifference  is  about  as  reason- 
able as  to  say,  a  man  never  was  young  because  he  is  grown 
old,  or  never  lived  because  he  is  now  dead.  The  length  or 
agreeableness  of  a  journey  does  not  depend  on  the  few  last 
steps  of  it ;  nor  is  the  size  of  a  building  to  be  judged  of  from 
the  last  stone  that  is  added  to  it.  It  is  neither  the  first  nor 
last  hour  of  our  existence,  but  the  space  that  parts  these  two 
— not  our  exit  nor  our  entrance  upon  the  stage,  but  what  we  do, 
feel,  and  think  while  there, — that  we  are  to  attend  to  in  pronounc- 
ing sentence  upon  it.  Indeed,  it  would  be  easy  to  show  that  it  is 
the  very  extent  of  human  life,  the  infinite  number  of  things  con- 
tained in  it,  its  contradictory  and  fluctuating  interests,  the  transi- 
tion from  one  situation  to  another,  the  hours,  months,  years,  spent 
in  one  fond  pursuit  after  another  ;  that  it  is,  in  a  word,  the  length 
of  our  common  journey  with  the  quantity  of  events  crowded  into 
it,  that,  baffling  the  grasp  of  our  actual  perception,  makes  it  slide 
from  our  memory,  and  dwindle  into  nothing  in  its  own  perspective. 
It  is  too  mighty  for  us,  and  we  say  it  is  nothing  !  It  is  a  speck  in 
our  fancy,  and  yet  what  canvas  would  be  big  enough  to  hold  it9 


30  TABLE  TALK. 


striking  groups,  its  endless  subjects !  It  is  light  as  vanity,  and 
yet  if  all  its  weary  moments,  if  all  its  head  and  heart  aches  were 
compressed  into  one,  what  fortitude  would  not  be  overwhelmed 
with  the  blow  !  What  a  huge  heap,  a  "  huge,  dumb  heap,"  of 
wishes,  thoughts,  feelings,  anxious  cares,  soothing  hopes,  loves, 
joys,  friendships,  is  it  composed  of !  How  many  ideas  and  trains 
of  sentiment,  long  and  deep  and  intense,  often  pass  through  the 
mind  in  only  one  day's  thinking  or  reading,  for  instance  !  How 
many  such  days  are  there  in  a  year,  how  many  years  in  a  long 
life,  still  occupied  with  something  interesting,  still  recalling  some 
old  impression,  still  recurring  to  some  difficult  question  and  mak- 
ing progress  in  it,  every  step  accompanied  with  a  sense  of  power, 
and  every  moment  conscious  of  "  the  high  endeavour  or  the  glad 
succers;"  for  the  mind  fixes  chiefly  on  that  which  keeps  it  em- 
ployed, and  is  wound  up  to  a  certain  pitch  of  pleasurable  excite- 
ment or  lively  solicitude,  by  the  necessity  of  its  own  nature. 
The  division  of  the  map  of  life  into  its  component  parts  is  beauti- 
fully made  by  King  Henry  VI. 

"  O  God !  methinks  it  were  a  happy  life 

To  be  r.o  better  than  a  homely  swain, 

To  sit  upon  a  hill  as  I  do  now, 

To  carve  out  dials  quaintly,  point  by  point, 

Thereby  to  see  the  minutes  how  they  run ; 

How  many  make  the  hour  full  complete, 

How  many  hours  bring  about  the  day, 

How  many  days  will  finish  up  the  year, 

How  many  years  a  mortal  man  may  live  : 

When  this  is  known,  then  to  divide  the  time ; 

So  many  hours  must  I  tend  my  flock, 

So  many  hours  must  I  take  my  rest, 

So  many  hours  must  I  contemplate, 

So  many  hours  must  I  sport  myself; 

So  many  days  my  ewes  have  been  with  young, 

So  many  weeks  ere  the  poor  fools  will  yean, 

So  many  months  ere  I  shall  shear  the  fleece  : 

So  many  minutes,  hours,  weeks,  months,  and  years 

Past  over  to  the  end  they  were  created, 

Would  bring  grey  hairs  unto  a  quiet  grave." 

I  myself  am  neither  a  king  nor  a  shepherd  :  books  have  been  my 
fleecy  charge,  and  my  thoughts  have  been  my  subjects.  But 
these  have  found  me  sufficient  employment  at  the  time,  and  enough 
to  muse* on  for  the  time  to  come. — 


THE  PAST  AND  FUTURE.  81 

The  passions  intercept  and  warp  the  natural  progress  of  life. 
They  paralyse  all  of  it  that  is  not  devoted  to  their  tyranny  and 
caprice.  This  makes  the  difference  between  the  laughing  in- 
nocence of  childhood,  the  pleasantness  of  youth,  and  the  crabbed- 
ness  of  age.  A  load  of  cares  lies  like  a  weight  of  guilt  upon  the 
mind  :  so  that  a  man  of  business  often  has  all  the  air,  the  distrac- 
tion and  restlessness  and  hurry  of  feeling  of  a  criminal.  A  know, 
ledge  of  the  world  takes  away  the  freedom  and  simplicity  of 
thought  as  effectually  as  the  contagion  of  its  example.  The  art- 
lessness  and  candour  of  our  early  years  are  open  to  all  impres- 
sions alike,  because  the  mind  is  not  clogged  and  pre-occupied  with 
other  objects.  Our  pleasures  and  our  pains  come  single,  make 
room  for  one  another,  and  the  spring  of  the  mind  is  fresh  and  un- 
broken, its  aspect  olear  and  unsullied.  Hence  "  the  tear  forgot 
as  soon  as  shed,  the  sunshine  of  the  breast."  But  as  we  advance 
farther,  the  will  gets  greater  head.  We  form  violent  antipathies 
and  indulge  exclusive  preferences.  We  make  up  our  minds  to 
some  one  thing,  and  if  we  cannot  have  that,  will  have  nothing. 
We  are  wedded  to  opinion,  to  fancy,  to  prejudice ;  which 
destroys  the  soundness  of  our  judgments,  and  the  serenity 
and  buoyancy  of  our  feelings.  The  chain  of  habit  coils 
itself  round  the  heart,  like  a  serpent,  to  gnaw  and  stifle  it. 
It  grows  rigid  and  callous ;  and  for  the  softness  and  elasticity 
of  childhood,  full  of  proud  flesh  and  obstinate  tumours.  The 
violence  and  perversity  of  our  passions  comes  in  more  and 
more  to  overlay  our  natural  sensibility  and  well-grounded  affec- 
tions ;  and  we  screw  ourselves  up  to  aim  only  at  those  things 
which  are  neither  desirable  nor  practicable.  Thus  life  passes 
away  in  the  feverish  irritation  of  pursuit  and  the  certainty  of  dis- 
appointment. By  degrees,  nothing  but  this  morbid  state  of 
feeling  satisfies  us  ;  and  all  common  pleasures  and  cheap  amuse- 
ments are  sacrificed  to  the  demon  of  ambition,  avarice,  or  dissipa- 
tion. The  machine  is  overwrought :  the  parching  heat  of  the 
veins  dries  up  and  withers  the  flowers  of  Love,  Hope,  and  Joy ; 
and  any  pause,  any  release  from  the  rack  of  ecstasy  on  which  we 
are  stretched,  seems  more  insupportable  than  the  pangs  which 
we  endure.  We  are  suspended  between  tormenting  desires  and 
the  horrors  of  ennui.     The  impulse  of  the  will,  like  the  wheels  of 


32  TABLE  TALK. 


a  carriage  going  down  hill,  becomes  too  strong  for  the  driver 
Reason,  and  cannot  be  stopped  nor  kept  within  bounds.  Some 
idea,  some  fancy,  takes  possession  of  the  brain  ;  and  however  ridi- 
culous, however  distressing,  however  ruinous,  haunts  us  by  a  sort 
of  fascination  through  life. 

Not  only  is  the  principle  here  pointed  out  to  be  seen  at  work 
in  our  more  turbulent  passions  and  pursuits  ;  but  even  in  the 
formal  study  of  arts  and  sciences  the  same  thing  takes  place,  and 
undermines  the  repose  and  happiness  of  life.  The  eagerness  of 
pursuit  overcomes  the  satisfaction  to  result  from  the  accomplish- 
ment. The  mind  is  overstrained  to  attain  its  purpose  ;  and  when 
it  is  attained,  the  ease  and  alacrity  necessary  to  enjoy  it  are  gone. 
The  irritation  of  action  does  not  cease  and  go  down  with  the  occa- 
sion for  it ;  but  we  are  first  uneasy  to  get  to  the  end  of  our  work, 
and  then  uneasy  for  want  of  something  to  do.  The  ferment  of 
the  brain  does  not  of  itself  subside  into  pleasure  and  soft  repose. 
Hence  the  disposition  to  strong  stimuli  observable  in  persons  of 
much  intellectual  exertion,  to  allay  and  carry  off  the  over-excite- 
ment. The  improvisatori  poets  (it  is  recorded  by  Spence  in  hi? 
Anecdotes  of  Pope)  cannot  sleep  after  an  evening's  continued  dis- 
play of  their  singular  and  difficult  art.  The  rhymes  keep  running 
in  their  heads  in  spite  of  themselves,  and  will  not  let  them  rest. 
Mechanics  and  labouring  people  never  know  what  to  do  with 
themselves  on  a  Sunday  ;  though  they  return  to  their  work  with 
greater  spirit  for  the  relief,  and  look  forward  to  it  with  pleasure  all 
the  week.  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  was  never  comfortable  out  of  his 
painting-room,  and  died  of  chagrin  and  regret,  because  he  could 
not  paint  on  to  the  last  moment  of  his  life.  He  used  to  say  that  he 
could  go  on  retouching  a  picture  forever,  as  long  as  it  stood  on  his 
easel ;  but  as  soon  as  it  was  once  fairly  out  of  the  house,  he  never 
wished  to  see  it  again.  An  ingenious  artist  of  our  own  time  has 
been  heard  to  declare,  that  if  ever  the  Devil  got  him  into  his 
clutches,  he  would  set  him  to  copy  his  own  pictures.  Thus  the 
secure,  self-complacent  retrospect  to  what  is  done  is  nothing ;  while 
the  anxious,  uneasy  looking  forward  to  what  is  to  come  is  every 
thing.  We  are  afraid  to  dwell  upon  the  past,  lest  it  should  retard 
our  future  progress  ;  the  indulgence  of  ease  is  fatal  to  excellence  ; 
and  to  succeed  in  life,  we  lose  the  ends  of  being  ! 


ON  PEOPLE  WITH  ONE  IDEA.  S* 


ESSAY  IV. 

On  People  with  one  Idea. 

There  are  people  who  have  but  one  idea  :  at  least,  if  they  have 
more,  they  keep  it  a  secret,  for  they  never  talk  but  of  one  subject. 
There  is  Major  Cartwright*  :  he  has  but  one  idea  or  subject  of 
discourse,  Parliamentary  Reform.  Now  Parliamentary  Reform  is 
(as  far  as  I  know)  a  very  good  thing,  a  very  good  idea,  and  a  very 
good  subject  to  talk  about :  but  why  should  it  be  the  only  one  ?  To 
hear  the  worthy  and  gallant  Major  resume  his  favourite  topic,  is 
like  law-business,  or  a  person  who  has  a  suit  in  Chancery  depend- 
ing. Nothing  can  be  attended  to,  nothing  can  be  talked  of  but  that. 
Now  it  is  getting  on,  now  again  it  is  standing  still ;  at  one  time 
the  Master  has  promised  to  pass  judgment  by  a  certain  day,  at  an- 
other he  has  put  it  off  again  and  called  for  more  papers,  and  both 
are  equally  reasons  for  speaking  of  it.  Like  the  piece  of  pack- 
thread in  the  barrister's  hands,  he  turns  and  twists  it  all  ways,  and 
cannot  proceed  a  step  without  it.  Some  school-boys  cannot  read, 
unless  it  be  in  their  own  book  :  and  the  man  of  one  idea  cannot 
converse  out  of  his  own  subject.  Conversation  it  is  not ;  but  a  sort 
of  recital  of  the  preamble  of  a  bill,  or  a  collection  of  grave  argu- 
ments for  a  man's  being  of  opinion  with  himself.  It  would  be  well 
if  there  was  any  thing  of  character,  of  eccentricity  in  all  this ;  but 
that  is  not  the  case.  It  is  a  political  homily  personified,  a  walking 
common-place  we  have  to  encounter  and  listen  to.  It  is  just  as  if 
a  man  was  to  insist  on  your  hearing  him  go  through  the  fifth  chap- 
ter of  the  Book  of  Judges  every  time  you  meet,  or  like  the  story  of 
the  Cosmogony  in  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield.  It  is  a  tune  played  on 
a  barrel-organ.  It  is  a  common  vehicle  of  discourse  into  which 
such  persons  get  and  are  set  down  when  they  please,  without  any 

*  This  most  resoectable  man  died  ntely  at  a  very  advanced  age. 


«4  TABLE  TALK. 


pains  or  trouble  to  themselves.  Neither  is  it  professional  pedantry 
or  trading  quackery :  it  has  no  excuse.  The  man  has  no  more  to 
do  with  the  question  which  he  saddles  on  all  his  hearers  than  you 
have.  This  is  what  makes  the  matter  hopeless.  If  a  farmer  talks 
to  you  about  his  pigs  or  his  poultry,  or  a  physician  about  his  pa- 
tients, or  a  lawyer  about  his  briefs,  or  a  merchant  about  stock,  01 
an  author  about  himself,  you  know  how  to  account  for  this  ;  it  is  a 
common  infirmity  :  you  have  a  laugh  at  his  expense,  and.  there  is 
no  more  to  be  said.  But  here  is  a  man  who  goes  out  of  his  way  to 
be  absurd,  and  is  troublesome  by  a  romantic  effort  of  generosity. 
You  cannot  say  to  him,  "  All  this  may  be  interesting  to  you,  but  I 
have  no  concern  in  it :"  you  cannot  put  him  off  in  that  way.  He 
retorts  the  Latin  adage  upon  you — Nihil  humani  a  me  alienum  puto. 
He  has  got  possession  of  a  subject  which  is  of  universal  and  para- 
mount interest  (not  "  a  fee-grief,  due  to  some  single  breast") — and 
on  that  plea  may  hold  you  by  the  button  as  long  as  he  chooses. 
His  delight  is  to  harangue  on  what  nowise  regards  himself:  how 
then  can  you  refuse  to  listen  to  what  as  little  amuses  you  ?  Time 
and  tide  wait  for  no  man.  The  business  of  the  state  admits  of  no 
delay.  The  question  of  Universal  Suffrage  and  Annual  Parlia- 
ments stands  first  on  the  order  of  the  day — takes  precedence  in  its 
jwn  right  of  every  other  question.  Any  other  topic,  grave  or  gay, 
\s  looked  upon  in  the  light  of  impertinence,  and  sent  to  Coventry. 
Business  is  an  interruption  ;  pleasure  a  digression  from  it.  It  is 
♦he  question  before  every  company  where  the  Major  comes  (which 
immediately  resolves  itself  into  a  committee  of  the  whole  world 
upon  it),  is  carried  on  by  means  of  a  perpetual  virtual  adjournment, 
and  it  is  presumed  that  no  other  is  to  be  entertained  while  this  is 
pending — a  presumption  which  gives  its  persevering  advocate  a 
fair  prospect  of  expatiating  on  it  to  his  dying  day.  As  Cicero  says 
of  study,  it  follows  him  into  the  country,  it  stays  with  him  at  home ; 
it  sits  with  him  at  breakfast,  and  goes  out  with  him  to  dinner.  It 
is  like  a  part  of  his  dress,  of  the  costume  of  his  person,  without 
which  he  would  be  at  a  loss  what  to  do.  If  he  meets  you  in  the 
street,  he  accosts  you  with  it  as  a  form  of  salutation :  if  you  see 
him  at  his  own  house,  it  is  supposed  you  come  upon  that.  If  you 
happen  to  remark,  "  It  is  a  fine  day  or  the  town  is  full,"  it  is  con- 
sidered as  a  temporary  compromise  of  the  question  ;  you  are  sus- 


ON  PEOPLE  WITH  ONE  IDEA.  35 


pected  of  hot  going  the  whole  length  of  the  principle.  As  Sancho, 
when  reprimanded  for  mentioning  his  homely  favourite  in  the 
Duke's  kitchen,  defended  himself  by  saying — "  There  I  thought 
of  Dapple,  and  there  I  spoke  of  him" — so  our  true  stickler  for 
Reform  neglects  no  opportunity  of  introducing  the  subject  wher- 
ever he  is.  Place  its  veteran  champion  under  the  frozen  north, 
and  he  will  celebrate  sweet  smiling  Reform :  place  him  under 
the  mid-day  Afric  sun,  and  he  will  talk  of  nothing  but  Reform — 
Reform  so  sweetly  smiling  and  so  sweetly  promising  for  the  last 
forty  years —  . 

Dulce  ridentem  Lalagen, 
Dulce  loquentem ! 

A  topic  of  this  sort,  of  which  the  person  himself  may  be  considered 
as  almost  sole  proprietor  and  patentee,  is  an  estate  for  life,  free 
from  all  incumbrance  of  wit,  thought,  or  study ;  you  may  live 
upon  it  as  a  settled  income  ;  and  others  might  as  well  think  to  eject 
you  out  of  a  capital  freehold  inheritance  as  think  to  drive  you  out 
of  it  into  the  wide  world  of  common  sense  and  argument.  Every 
man's  house  is  his  castle  ;  and  every  man's  common-place  is  his 
stronghold,  from  which  he  looks  out  and  smiles  at  the  dust  and 
heat  of  controversy,  raised  by  a  number  of  frivolous  and  vexati- 
ous questions — "Rings  the  world  with  the  vain  stir!"  A  cure  for  this 
and  every  other  evil  would  be  a  Parliamentary  Reform  ;  and  so  we 
return  in  a  perpetual  circle  to  the  point  from  which  we  set  out.  Is 
not  this  a  species  of  sober  madness  more  provoking  than  the  real  ? 
Has  not  the  theoretical  enthusiast  his  mind  as  much  warped,  as 
much  enslaved  by  one  idea  as  the  acknowledged  lunatic,  besides 
that  the  former  has  no  lucid  intervals  ?  If  you  see  a  visionary  of 
this  class  going  along  the  street,  you  can  tell  as  well  what  he  is 
thinking  of  and  will  say  next,  as  the  man  that  fancies  himself  a 
tea-pot  or  the  Czar  of  Muscovy.  The  one  is  as  inaccessible  tc 
reason  as  the  other  :  if  the  one  raves,  the  other  dotes  ! 

There  are  some  who  fancy  the  Corn-Bill  the  root  of  all  evil, 
and  others  who  trace  all  the  miseries  of  life  to  the  practice 
of  muffling  children  in  night-clothes  when  they  sleep  or  travel. 
They  will  declaim  by  the  hour  together  on  the  first,  and  argue 
themserVes  black  in  the  face  on  the  last.     It  is  in  vain  that  you 


*>  TABLE  TALK. 


give  up  the  point.  They  persist  in  the  debate,  and  begin  again— 
"  But  don't  you  see — ?"  These  sort  of  partial  obliquities,  as  they 
.re  more  entertaining  and  original,  are  also  by  their  nature  inter- 
mittent. They  hold  a  man  but  for  a  season.  He  may  have  one 
a  year  or  every  two  years ;  and  though,  while  he  is  in  the  heat 
of  any  new  discovery,  he  will  let  you  hear  of  nothing  else,  he 
varies  from  himself,  and  is  amusing  undesignedly.  He  is  not 
like  the  chimes  at  midnight. 

People  of  the  character  here  spoken  of,  that  is,  who  tease  you 
to  death  with  some  one  idea,  generally  differ  in  their  favorite  no- 
tion from  the  rest  of  the  world ;  and  indeed  it  is  the  love  of  dis- 
tinction which  is  mostly  at  the  bottom  of  this  peculiarity.  Thus 
one  person  is  remarkable  for  living  on  a  vegetable  diet,  and  never 
fails  to  entertain  you  all  dinner-time  with  an  invective  against  an- 
imal food.  One  of  this  self-denying  class,  who  adds  to  the  pri- 
mitive simplicity  of  this  sort  of  food  the  recommendation  of  hav- 
ing it  in  a  raw  state,  lamenting  the  death  of  a  patient  whom  he 
had  augured  to  be  in  a  good  way  as  a  convert  to  his  system,  at  last 
accounted  for  his  disappointment  in  a  whisper — "  But  she  ate  meat 
privately,  depend  upon  it !"  It  is  not  pleasant,  though  it  is  what 
one  submits  to  willingly  from  some  people,  to  be  asked  every  time 
you  meet,  whether  you  have  quite  left  off  drinking  wine,  and  to 
be  complimented  or  condoled  with  on  your  looks  according  as  you 
answer  in  the  affirmative  or  negative.  Abernethy  thinks  his  pill 
an  infallible  cure  for  all  disorders.  A  person  once  complaining 
to  his  physician  that  he  thought  his  mode  of  treatment  had  not 
answered,  he  assured  him  it  was  the  best  in  the  world, — "  and  as  a 
proof  of  it,"  says  he,  "  I  have  had  one  gentleman,  a  patient  with 
your  disorder,  under  the  same  regimen  for  the  last  sixteen  years  !" 
— I  have  known  persons  whose  minds  were  entirely  taken  up  at  all 
times  and  on  all  occasions  with  such  questions  as  the  Abolition  of 
the  Slave-Trade,  the  Restoration  of  the  Jews,  or  the  progress  of 
Unitarianism.  I  myself  at  one  period  took  a  pretty  strong  turn 
to  inveighing  against  the  doctrine  of  Divine  Right,  and  am  not 
yet  cured  of  my  prejudice  on  that  subject.  How  many  project- 
ors have  gone  mad  in  good  earnest  from  incessantly  harping  on 
one  idea,  the  discovery  of  the  philosopher's  stone,  the  finding  out 
the  longitude,  or  paying  off  the  national  debt !     The  disorder  at 


ON   PEOPLE   WITH   ONE   IDEA.  37 

length  comes  to  a  fatal  crisis  ;  but  long  before  this,  and  while 
they  were  walking  about  and  talking  as  usual,  the  derangement 
of  the  fancy,  the  loss  of  all  voluntary  power  to  control  or  alie- 
nate their  ideas  from  the  single  subject  that  occupied  them,  was 
gradually  taking  place,  and  overturning  the  fabric  of  the  under- 
standing by  wrenching  it  on  one  side.  Alderman  Wood  has,  I 
should  suppose,  talked  of  nothing  but  the  Queen  in  all  companies 
for  the  last  six  months.  Happy  Alderman  Wood !  Some  per- 
sons have  got  a  definition  of  the  verb,  others  a  system  of  short- 
hand, others  a  cure  for  typhus  fever,  others  a  method  for  prevent- 
ing the  counterfeiting  of  bank-notes,  which  they  think  the  best 
possible,  and  indeed  the  only  one.  Others  insist  there  have  been 
only  three  great  men  in  the  world,  leaving  you  to  add  a  fourth. 
A  man  who  has  been  in  Germany  will  sometimes  talk  of  nothing 
but  what  is  German  :  a  Scotchman  always  leads  the  discourse 
to  his  own  country.  Some  descant  on  the  Kantean  philosophy. 
There  is  a  conceited  fellow  about  town  who  talks  always  and  every 
where  on  this  subject.  He  wears  the  Categories  round  his  neck 
like  a  pearl-chain :  he  plays  off"  the  names  of  the  primary  and 
transcendental  qualities,  like  rings  on  his  fingers.  He  talks  of 
the  Kantean  system  while  he  dances ;  he  talks  of  it  while  he 
dines ;  he  talks  of  it  to  his  children,  to  his  apprentices,  to  his 
customers.  He  called  on  me  to  convince  me  of  it,  and  said  I 
was  only  prevented  from  becoming  a  complete  convert  by  one  or 
two  prejudices.  He  knows  no  more  about  it  than  a  pike-staff". 
Why  then  does  he  make  so  much  ridiculous  fuss  about  it  ?  It  is 
not  that  he  has  got  this  one  idea  in  his  head,  but  that  he  has  got 
no  other.  A  dunce  may  talk  on  the  subject  of  the  Kantean  phi- 
losophy with  great  impunity  :  if  he  opened  his  lips  on  any  other, 
he  might  be  found  out.  A  French  lady,  who  had  married  an 
Englishman  who  said  little,  excused  him  by  saying — "  He  is  al- 
ways thinking  of  Locke  and  Newton."  This  is  one  way  of 
passing  muster  by  following  in  the  suite  of  great  names ! — A 
friend  of  mine,  whom  I  met  one  day  in  the  street,  accosted  me 
with  more  than  usual  vivacity,  pnd  said,  "  Well,  we're  selling, 
we're  selling  !"  I  thought  he  meant  a  house.  "  No,"  he  said, 
"haven't  you  seen  the  advertisement  in  the  newspapers?  I 
mean  five-and-twenty  copies  of  'he  Essay."  This  work,  a  comely, 


Sft  TABLE  TALK. 


capacious  quarto  on  the  most  abstruse  metaphysics,  had  oc- 
cupied his  sole  thoughts  for  several  years,  and  he  concluded 
that  I  must  be  thinking  of  what  he  was.  I  believe,  however, 
I  may  say  I  am  nearly  the  only  person  that  ever  read,  cer- 
tainly that  ever  pretended  to  understand  it.  It  is  an  original 
and  most  ingenious  work,  nearly  as  incomprehensible  as  it  is 
original,  and  as  quaint  as  it  is  ingenious.  If  the  author  is 
taken  up  with  the  ideas  in  his  own  head  and  no  others,  he 
has  a  right :  for  he  has  ideas  there,  that  are  to  be  met  with  no- 
where else,  and  which  occasionally  would  not  disgrace  a  Berke- 
ley. A  dextrous  plagiarist  might  get  himself  an  immense  repu- 
tation by  putting  them  in  a  popular  dress.  Oh !  how  little  do 
they  know,  who  have  never  done  any  thing  but  repeat  aftei 
others  by  rote,  the  pangs,  the  labour,  the  yearnings  and  misgiv- 
ings of  mind  it  costs,  to  get  at  the  germ  of  an  original  idea — to 
dig  it  out  of  the  hidden  recesses  of  thought  and  nature,  and 
bring  it  half-ashamed,  struggling,  and  deformed,  into  the  day — to 
give  words  and  intelligible  symbols  to  that  which  was  never  im- 
agined or  expressed  before  !  It  is  as  if  the  dumb  should  speak 
for  the  first  time,  or  as  if  things  should  stammer  out  their  own 
meaning,  through  the  imperfect  organs  of  mere  sense.  I  wish 
that  some  of  our  fluent,  plausible  declaimers,  who  have  such 
store  of  words  to  cover  the  want  of  ideas,  would  lend  their  art 
to  this  writer.  If  he,  "  poor,  unfledged"  in  this  respect,  "  who 
has  scarce  winged  from  view  o'  th'  nest,';  could  find  a  language 
for  his  thoughts,  truth  would  find  a  language  for  some  of  her 
secrets.  Mr  Fearn  was  buried  in  the  woods  of  Indostan.  In 
his  leisure  from  business  and  from  tiger-shooting,  he  took  it  into 
his  head  to  look  into  his  own  mind.  A  whim  or  two,  an  odd  fancy, 
like  a  film  before  the  eye,  now  and  then  crossed  it :  it  struck 
him  as  something  curious,  but  the  impression  at  first  disappeared 
like  breath  upon  glass.  He  thought  no  more  of  it :  yet  still  the 
same  conscious  feelings  returned,  and  what  at  first  was  chance 
or  instinct,  became  a  habit.  Several  notions  had  taken  posses- 
sion of  his  brain  relating  to  mental  processes  which  he  had  never 
heard  alluded  to  in  conversation  ;  but  not  being  well  versed  in 
such  matters,  he  did  not  know  whether  they  were  to  be  found  in 
learned  authors  or  not.     He  took  a  journey  to  the  capital  of  the 


ON  PEOPLE  WITH  ONE  IDEA.  38 


Peninsula  on  purpose,  bought  Locke,  Reid,  Stewart,  and  Berke. 
ley,  whom  he  consulted  with  eager  curiosity  when  he  got  home, 
but  did  not  find  what  he  looked  for.  He  set  to  work  himself; 
and  in  a  few  weeks,  sketched  out  a  rough  draught  of  his  thoughts 
and  observations  on  bamboo  paper.  The  eagerness  of  his  new 
pursuit,  together  with  the  diseases  of  the  climate,  proved  too 
much  for  his  constitution,  and  he  was  forced  to  return  to  this 
country.  He  put  his  metaphysics,  his  bamboo  manuscript,  into 
the  boat  with  him,  and  as  he  floated  down  the  Ganges,  said  to 
himself,  "  If  I  live,  this  will  live :  if  I  die,  it  will  not  be  heard 
of."  "What  is  fame  to  such  a  feeling?  The  babbling  of  an  idi- 
ot !  He  brought  the  work  home  with  him,  and  twice  had  it  ste- 
reotyped. The  first  sketch  he  allowed  was  obscure,  but  the  im- 
proved copy  he  thought  could  not  fail  to  strike.  It  did  not  suc- 
ceed. The  world,  as  Goldsmith  said  of  himself,  made  a  point  of 
taking  no  notice  of  it.  Ever  since  he  has  had  nothing  but  disap- 
pointment and  vexation — the  greatest  and  most  heart-breaking  of 
all  others — that  of  not  being  able  to  make  yourself  understood. 
Mr.  Fearn  tells  me  there  is  a  sensible  writer  in  the  Monthly  Re- 
view who  sees  the  thing  in  its  proper  light,  and  says  so.  But  I 
have  heard  of  no  other  instance.  There  are  notwithstanding 
ideas  in  this  work,  neglected  and  ill-treated  as  it  has  been, 
that  lead  to  more  curious  and  subtle  speculations  on  some 
of  the  most  disputed  and  difficult  points  of  the  philosophy 
of  the  human  mind  (such  as  relation,  abstraction,  &c.)  than  have 
been  thrown  out  in  any  work  for  the  last  sixty  years,  I  mean 
since  Hume  ;  for  since  his  time,  there  has  been  no  metaphysician 
in  this  country  worth  the  name.  Yet  his  Treatise  on  Human 
Nature,  he  tells  us,  "  fell  still-born  from  the  press."  So  it  is 
that  knowledge  works  its  way,  and  reputation  lingers  far  behind 
it.  But  truth  is  better  than  opinion,  I  maintain  it ;  and  as  to  the 
two  stereotyped  and  unsold  editions  of  the  Essay  on  Consci- 
ousness, I  say,  Honi  soit  qui  mal  y  pense  !*     My  Uncle  Toby  had 

*  Gtuarto  poetry,  as  well  as  quarto  metaphysics,  does  not  always  sell.  Go- 
ing one  day  into  a  shop  in  Paternoster-row  to  see  for  some  lines  in  Mr. 
Wordsworth's  Excursion  to  interlard  some  prose  with,  I  applied  to  the  con- 
stituted authorities,  and  asked  if  I  could  look  at  a  copy  of  the  Excursion  ? 
The  answer  was — "  Into  which  county,  Sir  V 


40  TABLE  TALK. 


one  idea  in  his  head,  that  of  his  bowling-green,  and  another,  that 
of  the  Widow  Wadman.  Oh,  spare  them  both  !  I  will  only  add 
one  more  anecdote  in  illustration  of  this  theory  of  the  mind's  be- 
ing occupied  with  one  idea,  which  is  most  frequently  of  a  man's 
self.  A  celebrated  lyrical  writer  happened  to  drop  into  a  small 
party  where  they  had  just  got  the  novel  of  Rob  Roy,  by  the  au- 
thor of  Waverley.  The  motto  in  the  title-page  was  taken  from 
a  poem  of  his.  This  was  a  hint  sufficient,  a  word  to  the  wise. 
He  instantly  went  to  the  book-shelf  in  the  next  room,  took  down 
the  volume  of  his  own  poems,  l'ead  the  whole  of  that  in  question 
aloud  with  manifest  complacency,  replaced  it  on  the  shelf,  and 
walked  away ;  taking  no  more  notice  of  Rob  Roy  than  if  there 
had  been  no  such  person,  nor  of  the  new  novel  than  if  it  had 
not  been  written  by  its  renowned  author.  There  was  no  reci- 
procity in  this.  But  the  writer  in  question  does  not  admit  of  any 
merit,  second  to  his  own.* 

Mr.  Owen  is  a  man  remarkable  for  one  idea.  It  is  that  of 
himself  and  the  Lanark  cotton-mills.  He  carries  this  idea  back- 
wards  and  forwards  with  him  from  Glasgow  to  London,  without 
allowing  any  thing  for  attrition,  and  expects  to  find  it  in  the  same 
state  of  purity  and  perfection  in  the  latter  place  as  at  the  former. 
He  acquires  a  wonderful  velocity  and  impenetrability  in  his  un- 
daunted transit.  Resistance  to  him  is  vain,  while  the  whirling 
motion  of  the  mail-coach  remains  in  his  head. 

"Nor  Alps  nor  Appenines  can  keep  him  out, 
Nor  fortified  redoubt." 

He  even  got  possession,  in  the  suddenness  of  his  onset,  of  the  steam- 
engine  of  the  Times  newspaper,  and  struck  off  ten  thousand  wood- 
cuts of  the  Projected  Villages,  which  afforded  an  ocular  demon- 

*  These  fantastic  poets  are  like  a  foolish  ringer  at  Plymouth  that  Northcote 
tells  the  story  of.  He  was  proud  of  his  ringing,  and  the  boys  who  made  a 
jest  of  his  foible  used  to  get  him  into  the  belfry,  and  ask  him,  "  Well  now, 
John,  how  many  good  ringers  are  there  in  Plymouth  V  "  Two,"  he  would 
Bay,  without  any  hesitation.     "Ay,  indeed!  and  who  are  they1?" — "Why, 

first,  there's  myself,  that's  one  ;  and — and  " "  Well,  and  who's  the  other?" 

— "  Wfty,  there's,  there's Ecod,  I  can't  think  of  any  other  but  myself." 

Talk  we  of  one  Master  Launcelot.  The  story  is  of  ringers:  it  will  do  for  anj 
vain,  shallow,  self-satisfied  egotist  of  them  all. 


ON  PEOPLE  WITH  ONE  IDEA.  41 

stration  to  all  who  saw  them  of  the  practicability  of  Mr.  Owen's 
whole  scheme.  He  comes  into  a  room  with  one  of  these  docu- 
ments in  his  hand,  with  the  air  of  a  schoolmaster  and  a  quack-doc- 
tor mixed,  asks  very  kindly  how  you  do,  and  on  hearing  you  are 
still  in  an  indifferent  state  of  health,  owing  to  bad  digestion,  in- 
stantly turns  round,  and  observes,  "That  all  that  will  be  remedied 
in  his  plan  :  that  indeed  he  thinks  too  much  attention  has  been 
paid  to  the  mind,  and  not  enough  to  the  body  ;  that  in  his  system, 
which  he  has  now  perfected  and  which  will  shortly  be  generally 
adopted,  he  has  provided  effectually  for  both :  that  he  has  been 
long  of  opinion  that  the  mind  depends  altogether  on  the  physical 
organization,  and  where  the  latter  is  neglected  or  disordered,  the 
former  must  languish  and  want  its  due  vigour  :  that  exercise  is 
therefore  a  part  of  his  system,  with  full  liberty  to  develop  every  fa- 
culty of  mind  and  body  :  that  two  objections  had  been  made  to  his 
New  View  of  Society,  viz.  its  want  of  relaxation  from  labour,  and 
its  want  of  variety ;  but  the  first  of  these,  the  too  great  restraint,  he 
trusted  he  had  already  answered,  for  where  the  powers  of  mind 
and  body  were  freely  exercised  and  brought  out,  surely  liberty 
must  be  allowed  to  exist  in  the  highest  degree ;  and  as  to  the  se- 
cond, the  monotony  which  would  be  produced  by  a  regular  and 
general  plan  of  co-operation,  he  conceived  he  had  proved  in  his 
"  New  View"  and  "  Addresses  to  the  Higher  Classes"  ;  that  the 
co-operation  he  had  recommended  was  necessarily  conducive  to 
the  most  extensive  improvement  of  the  ideas  and  faculties,  and 
where  this  was  the  case,  there  must  be  the  greatest  possible  va- 
riety, instead  of  a  want  of  it."  And  having  said  so,  this  expert 
and  sweeping  orator  takes  up  his  hat  and  walks  down-stairs  af- 
ter reading  his  lecture  of  truisms  like  a  play-bill,  or  an  apothe- 
cary's advertisement ;  and  should  you  stop  him  at  the  door  to  say 
by  way  of  putting  in  a  word  in  common,  that  Mr.  Southey  seems 
somewhat  favourable  to  his  plan  in  his  late  "  Letter  to  Mr. 
William  Smith,"  he  looks  at  you  with  a  smile  of  pity  at  the  fu- 
tility of  all  opposition  and  the  idleness  of  all  encouragement. 
People  who  thus  swell  out  some  vapid  scheme  of  their  own  intc 
undue  importance,  seem  to  me  to  labour  under  water  in  the  head 
■—to  exhibit  a  huge  hydrocephalus !  They  may  be  very  worthy 
people  for  all  that,  but  they  are  bad  companions,  and  very  indif 

3 


42  TABLE  TALK. 


ferent  reasoners.  Tom  Moore  says  of  some  one  somewhere, 
"  That  he  puts  his  hand  in  his  breeches'  pocket  like  a  crocodile." 
The  phrase  is  hieroglyphical :  but  Mr.  Owen  and  others  might  be 
said  to  put  their  foot  in  the  question  of  social  improvement  and 
reform  much  in  the  same  unaccountable  manner. 

I  hate  to  be  surfeited  with  any  thing,  however  sweet.  I  do 
not  want  to  be  always  tied  to  the  same  question,  as  if  there  were 
no  other  in  the  world.     I  like  a  mind  more  Catholic. 

"  I  love  to  talk  with  mariners, 
T^iat  come  from  a  far  countree." 

I  am  not  for  "  a  collusion  "  but  "  an  exchange''  of  ideas.  Jt 
s  well  to  hear  what  other  people  have  to  say  on  a  number  of 
subjects.  I  do  not  wish  to  be  always  respiring  the  same  con- 
fined atmosphere,  but  to  vary  the  scene,  and  get  a  little  relief 
and  fresh  air  out  of  doors.  Do  all  we  can  to  shake  it  off,  there 
is  always  enough  pedantry,  egotism,  and  self-conceit  left  lurking 
behind  :  we  need  not  seal  ourselves  up  hermetically  in  these  pre- 
cious qualities  ;  so  as  to  think  of  nothing  but  our  own  wonderful 
discoveries,  and  hear  nothing  bnt  the  sound  of  our  own  voice. 
Scholars,  like  princes,  may  learn  something  by  being  incognito. 
Yet  we  see  those  who  cannot  go  into  a  bookseller's  shop,  or  bear 
to  be  five  minutes  in  a  stage-coach,  without  letting  you  know  who 
they  are.  They  carry  their  reputation  about  with  them  as  the 
snail  does  its  shell,  and  sit  under  its  canopy  like  the  lady  in  the 
lobster.  I  cannot  understand  this  at  all.  What  is  the  use  of  a 
man's  always  revolving  round  his  own  little  circle  ?  He  must, 
one  should  think,  be  tired  of  it  himself,  as  well  as  tire  other  peo- 
ple. A  well-known  writer  says  with  much  boldness  both  in  the 
thought  and  expression,  that  "  a  Lord  is  imprisoned  in  the  Bastille 
of  a  name,  and  cannot  enlarge  himself  into  man :"  and  I  have 
known  men  of  genius  in  the  same  predicament.  Why  must  a  man 
be  forever  mouthing  out  his  own  poetry,  comparing  himself  with 
Milton,  passage  by  passage,  and  weighing  every  line  in  a  balance 
of  posthumous  fame  which  he  holds  in  his  own  hands  ?  It  argues 
a  want  of  imagination  as  well  as  of  common  sense.  Has  he  no 
ideas  but  what  he  has  put  into  verse  ;  or  none  in  common  with 
bis  hearers  ?    Why  should  he  think  it  the  only  scholar-like  thing, 


ON  PEOPLE  WITH  ONE  IDEA.  4b 

the  only  "  virtue  extant,"  to  see  the  merit  of  his  writings,  and  that 
"  men  were  brutes  without  them  ?"  Why  should  he  bear  a  grudge 
to  all  art,  to  all  beauty,  to  all  wisdom  that  does  not  spring  from 
his  own  brain  ?  Or  why  should  he  fondly  imagine  that  there  is 
but  one  fine  thing  in  the  world,  namely  poetry,  and  that  he  is  the 
only  poet  in  it  ?  It  will  never  do.  Poetry  is  a  very  fine  thing  ; 
but  there  are  other  things  besides  it.  Every  thing  must  have  its 
turn.  Does  a  wise  man  think  to  enlarge  his  comprehension  by 
turning  his  eyes  only  on  himself,  or  hope  to  conciliate  the  admi- 
ration of  others  by  scouting,  proscribing,  and  loathing  all  that 
they  delight  in  ?  He  must  either  have  a  disproportionate  idea  of 
himself;  or  be  ignorant  of  the  world,  in  which  he  lives.  It  is 
quite  enough  to  have  one  class  of  people  born  to  think  the  uni- 
verse made  for  them ! — It  seems  also  to  argue  a  want  of  repose, 
of  confidence,  and  firm  faith  in  a  man's  real  pretensions,  to  be 
always  dragging  them  forward  into  the  fore-ground,  as  if  the  pro- 
verb held  here — Out  of  sight  out  of  mind.  Does  the  author  in 
question  conceive  that  no  one  would  ever  think  of  his  poetry, 
unless  he  forced  it  upon  them  by  repeating  it  himself?  Does  he 
believe  all  competition,  all  allowance  of  another's  merit,  fatal  to 
him  ?  Must  he,  like  Moody  in  the  Country  Girl,  lock  up  the 
faculties  of  his  admirers  in  ignorance  of  all  other  fine  things, 
painting,  music,  the  antique,  lest  they  should  play  truant  to  him  ? 
Methinks,  such  a  proceeding  implies  no  good  opinion  of  his  own 
genius  or  their  taste : — it  is  deficient  in  dignity  and  in  decorum. 
Surely  if  any  one  is  convinced  of  the  reality  of  an  acquisition, 
he  can  bear  not  to  have  it  spoken  of  every  minute.  If  he  knows 
he  has  an  undoubted  superiority  in  any  respect,  he  will  not  be 
uneasy  because  every  one  he  meets  is  not  in  the  secret,  nor  be 
staggered  by  the  report  of  rival  excellence.  One  of  the  first 
mathematicians  and  classical  scholars  of  the  day  was  mentioning 
it  as  a  compliment  to  himself,  that  a  cousin  of  his,  a  girl  from 

school,  had  said  of  him,  "  You  know  M is  a  very  plain 

good  sort  of  young  man,  but  he  is  not  any  thing  at  all  out  of  the 
common."  L.  H.  once  said  to  me,  "  I  wonder  I  never  heard  you 
speak  upon  this  subject  before,  which  vou  seem  to  have  studied 
a  good  deal."  I  answereJ,  "  Why,  we  were  not  reduced  to  that, 
that  I  know  of!" — 


44  TABLE  TALK. 

There  are  persons,  who,  without  being  chargeable  with  the 
vice  here  spoken  of,  yet  "  stand  accountant  for  as  great  a  sin :" 
though  not  dull  and  monotonous,  they  are  vivacious  mannerists 
in  their  conversation,  and  excessive  egotists.  Though  they  run 
over  a  thousand  subjects  in  mere  gaiety  of  heart,  their  delight 
still  flows  from  one  idea,  namely,  themselves.  Open  the  book  in 
what  page  you  will,  there  is  a  frontispiece  of  themselves  staring 
you  in  the  face.  They  are  a  sort  of  Jacks  o'  the  Green,  with  a 
sprig  of  laurel,  a  little  tinsel,  and  a  little  smut,  but  still  playing 
antics  and  keeping  in  incessant  motion,  to  attract  attention  and 
extort  your  pittance  of  approbation.  Whether  they  talk  of  the 
town  or  the  country,  poetry  or  politics,  it  comes  to  much  the 
same  thing.  If  they  talk  to  you  of  the  town,  its  diversions,  "  its 
palaces,  its  ladies,  and  its  pomp,"  they  are  the  delight,  the  grace, 
and  ornament  of  it.  If  they  are  describing  the  charms  of  the 
country,  they  give  no  account  of  any  individual  spot  or  object, 
or  source  of  pleasure,  but  the  circumstance  of  their  being  there. 
"  With  them  conversing,  we  forget  all  place,  all  seasons,  and 
their  change."  They,  perhaps,  pluck  a  leaf  or  a  flower,  patronize 
it,  and  hand  it  to  you  to  admire,  but  select  no  one  feature  of 
beauty  or  grandeur  to  dispute  the  palm  of  perfection  with  their 
own  persons.  Their  rural  descriptions  are  mere  landscape 
back-grounds,  with  their  own  portraits  in  an  engaging  attitude 
in  front.  They  are  not  observing  or  enjoying  the  scene,  but 
doing  the  honours  as  masters  of  the  ceremonies  of  nature,  and 
arbiters  of  elegance  to  all  humanity.  If  they  tell  a  love-tale  of 
enamoured  princesses,  it  is  plain  they  fancy  themselves  the  hero 
of  the  piece.  If  they  discuss  poetry,  their  encomiums  still  turn 
on  something  genial  and  unsophisticated,  meaning  their  own 
style:  if  they  enter  into  politics,  it  is  understood  that  a  hint  from 
them  to  the  potentates  of  Europe  is  sufficient.  In  short,  as  a 
lover  (talk  of  what  you  will)  brings  in  his  mistress  at  every  turn, 
so  these  persons  contrive  to  divert  your  attention  to  the  same 
darling  object — they  are,  in  fact,  in  love  with  themselves ;  ant> 
like  lovers,  should  be  left  to  keep  their  own  company. 


ON  THE  IGNORANCE  OF  THE  LEARNED.      4£ 


ESSAY  V. 

On  the  Ignorance  of  the  Learned. 

**  For  the  more  languages  a  man  can  speak, 
His  talent  has  but  sprung  the  greater  leak : 
And,  for  the  industry  he  has  spent  upon't, 
Must  full  as  much  some  other  way  discount 
The  Hebrew,  Chaldee,  and  the  Syriac, 
Do,  like  their  letters,  set  men's  reason  back, 
Ar  l  turn  their  wits  that  strive  to  understand  it 
(Like  those  that  write  the  characters)  left-handed. 
Yet  he  that  is  but  able  to  express 
No  sense  at  all  in  several  languages, 
Will  pass  for  learneder  than  he  that's  known 
To  speak  the  strongest  reason  in  his  own." 

The  Author  op  Hudibra*. 

The  description  of  persons  who  have  the  fewest  ideas  of  all 
others  are  mere  authors  and  readers.  It  is  better  to  be  able 
neither  to  read  nor  write  than  to  be  able  to  do  nothing  else.  A 
lounger  who  is  ordinarily  seen  with  a  book  in  his  hand,  is  (we 
may  be  almost  sure)  equally  without  the  power  or  inclination  to 
attend  either  to  what  passes  around  him,  or  in  his  own  mii.d. 
Such  a  one  may  be  said  to  carry  his  understanding  about  with 
him  in  his  pocket,  or  to  leave  it  at  home  on  his  library  shelves. 
He  is  afraid  of  venturing  on  any  train  of  reasoning,  or  of  striking 
out  any  observation  that  is  not  mechanically  suggested  to  him  by 
passing  his  eyes  over  certain  legible  characters  ;  shrinks  from 
the  fatigue  of  thought,  which,  for  want  of  practice,  becomes 
insupportable  to  him ;  and  sits  down  contented  with  an  endless 
wearisome  succession  of  words  and  half-formed  images,  which 
fill  the  void  of  the  mind,  and  continually  efface  one  another. 
Learning  is,  in  too  many  cases,  but  a  foil  to  common  sense ;  a 
substitute  for  true  knowledge.  •  Books  are  less  often  made  use  of 
as  "  .spectacles"  to  look  at  nature  with,  than  as  blinds  to  keen 


TABLE  TALK. 


out  'tS  strong  light  and  shifting  scenery  from  weak  eyes  apd  in- 
dolent  dispositions.  The  book-worm  wraps  himself  up  in  his 
web  of  verbal  generalities,  and  sees  only  the  glimmering  shadows 
cf  things  reflected  from  the  minds  of  others.  Nature  puts  him 
out.  The  impressions  of  real  objects,  stripped  of  the  disguises 
of  words  and  voluminous  round-about  descriptions,  are  blows  thai 
stagger  him  ;  their  variety  distracts,  their  rapidity  exhausts  him  ; 
and  he  turns  from  the  bustle,  the  noise  and  glare  and  whirling 
motion  of  the  world  about  him  (which  he  has  not  an  eye  to  follow 
in  its  fantastic  changes,  nor  an  understanding  to  reduce  to  fixed 
principles)  to  the  quiet  monotony  of  the  dead  languages,  and  the 
less  startling  and  more  intelligible  combinations  of  the  letters  of 
the  alphabet.  It  is  well,  it  is  perfectly  well.  "  Leave  me  to  my 
repose"  is  the  motto  of  the  sleeping  and  the  dead.  You  might  as 
well  ask  the  paralytic  to  leap  from  his  chair  and  throw  away  his 
crutch,  or,  without  a  miracle,  to  "  take  up  his  bed  and  walk,"  as 
expect  the  learned  reader  to  lay  down  his  book  and  think  for 
himself.  He  clings  to  it  for  his  intellectual  support ;  and  his 
dread  of  being  left  to  himself  is  like  the  horror  of  a  vacuum.  He 
can  only  breathe  a  learned  atmosphere,  as  other  men  breathe 
common  air.  He  is  a  borrower  of  sense.  He  has  no  ideas  of 
his  own,  and  must  live  on  those  of  other  people.  The  habit  of 
supplying  our  ideas  from  foreign  sources  "  enfeebles  all  internal 
strength  of  thought,"  as  a  course  of  dram-drinking  destroys  the 
tone  of  the  stomach.  The  faculties  of  the  mind,  when  not  ex- 
erted, or  when  cramped  by  custom  and  authority,  become  list- 
less, torpid,  and  unfit  for  the  purposes  of  thought  or  action.  Can 
we  wonder  at  the  languor  and  lassitude  which  is  thus  produced 
by  a  life  of  learned  sloth  and  ignorance ;  by  poring  over  lines 
and  syllables  that  excite  little  more  idea  or  interest  than  if  they 
were  the  characters  of  an  unknown  tongue,  till  the  eye  closes  on 
vacancy,  and  the  book  drops  from  the  feeble  hand !  I  would 
rather  be  a  wood-cutter,  or  the  meanest  hind,  that  all  day 
"  sweats  in  the  eye  of  Phoebus,  and  at  night  sleeps  in  Elysium," 
than  wear  out  my  life  so,  'twixt  dreaming  and  awake.  The 
learned  author  differs  from  the  learned  student  in  this,  that  the 
one  transcribes  what  the  other  reads.  The  learned  are  mere 
literary  drudges.     If  you  set  them  upon  original  composition, 


ON  THE  IGNORANCE  OP  THE  LEARNED.       47 

their  heads  turn,  they  know  not  where  they  are.  The  indefati- 
gable readers  of  books  are  like  the  everlasting  copiers  of  pictures, 
who,  when  they  attempt  to  do  any  thing  of  their  own,  find 
they  want  an  eye  quick  enough,  a  hand  steady  enough,  and 
colours  bright  enough,  to  trace  the  living  forms  of  nature. 

Any  one  who  has  passed  through  the  regular  gradations  of  a 
classical  education,  and  is  not  made  a  fool  by  it,  may  consider 
himself  as  having  had  a  very  narrow  escape.    It  is  an  old  remark, 
that  boys  who  shine  at  school  do  not  make  the  greatest  figure 
when  they  grow  up  and  come  out  into  the  world.    The  things,  in 
fact,  which  a  boy  is  set  to  learn  at  school,  and  on  which  his  suc- 
cess depends,  are  things  which  do  not  require  the  exercise  either 
of  the  highest  or  the  most  useful  faculties  of  the  mind.     Memory 
(and  that  of  the  lowest  kind)  is  the  chief  faculty  called  into  play, 
in  conning  over  and  repeating  lessons  by  rote  in  grammar,  in  lan- 
guages, in  geography,  arithmetic,  &c,  so  that  he  who  has  the 
most,  of  this  technical  memory,  with  the  least  turn  for  other  things, 
which  have  a  stronger  and  more  natural  claim  upon  his  childiwt 
attention,  will  make  the  most  forward  school-boy.     The  jargon 
containing  the  definitions  of  the  parts  of  speech,  the  rules  for 
casting  up  an  account,  or  the  inflections  of  a  Greek  verb,  can 
have  no  attraction  to  the  tyro  of  ten  years  old,  except  as  they  are 
imposed  as  a  task  upon  him  by  others,  or  from  his  feeling  the 
want  of  sufficient  relish  or  amusement  in  other  things.     A  lad 
with  a  sickly  constitution,  and  no  very  active  mind,  who  can  just 
retain  what  is  pointed  out  to  him,  and  has  neither  sagacity  to  dis- 
tinguish nor  spirit  to  enjoy  for  himself,  will  generally  be  at  the 
head  of  his  form.     An  idler  at  school,  on  the  other  hand,  is  one 
who  has  high  health  and  spirits,  who  has  the  free  use  of  his  limbs, 
with  all  his  wits  about  him,  who  feels  the  circulation  of  his  blood 
and  the  motion  of  his  heait.  who  is  ready  to  laugh  and  cry  in  a 
breath,  and  who  had  rather  chase  a  ball  or  a  butterfly,  feel  the 
open  air  in  his  face,  look  at  tfte  fields  or  the  sky,  follow  a  wind- 
ing path,  or  enter  with  eagerness  into  all  the  little  conflicts  and 
interests  of  his  acquaintances  and  friends,  than  doze  over  a  musty 
spelling-book,  repeat  barbarous  distichs  after  his  master,  sit  so 
many  hours  pinioned  to  a  writing-desk,  and  receive  his  reward 
for  the  loss  of  time  and  pleasure  in  paltry  prize-medals  at  Chrisf- 


48  TABLE  TALK. 


mas  and  Midsummer.  There  is  indeed  a  degree  of  stupidity 
which  prevents  children  from  learning  the  usual  lessons,  or  ever 
arriving  at  these  puny  academic  honours.  But  what  passes  for 
stupidity  is  much  oftener  a  want  of  interest,  of  a  sufficient  motive 
to  fix  the  attention,  and  force  a  reluctant  application  to  the  dry 
and  unmeaning  pursuits  of  school-learning.  The  best  capacities 
are  as  much  above  this  drudgery,  as  the  dullest  are  beneath  it. 
Our  men  of  the  greatest  genius  have  not  been  most  distinguished 
for  their  acquirements  at  school  or  at  the  university. 

"  Th'  enthusiast  Fancy  was  a  truant  ever." 

Gray  and  Collins  were  among  the  instances  of  this  wayward 
disposition.  Such  persons  do  not  think  so  highly  of  the  advan- 
tages, nor  can  they  submit  their  imaginations  so  servilely  to  the 
trammels  of  strict  scholastic  discipline.  There  is  a  certain  kind 
and  degree  of  intellect  in  which  words  take  root,  but  into  which 
things  have  not  power  to  penetrate.  A  mediocrity  of  talent,  with 
a  certain  slenderness  of  moral  constitution,  is  the  soil  that  pro- 
duces the  most  brilliant  specimens  of  successful  prize-essayists 
and  Greek  epigrammatists.  It  should  not  be  forgotten,  that  the 
most  equivocal  character  among  modern  politicians  was  the 
cleverest  boy  at  Eton. 

Learning  is  the  knowledge  of  that  which  is  not  generally  known 
to  others,  and  which  we  can  only  derive  at  second-hand  from  books 
or  other  artificial  sources.  The  knowledge  of  that  which  is  be- 
fore us  or  about  us,  which  appeals  to  our  experience,  passions, 
and  pursuits,  to  the  bosoms  and  businesses  of  men,  is  not  learn- 
ing. Learning  is  the  knowledge  of  that  which  none  but  the 
learned  know.  He  is  the  most  learned  man  who  knows  the  most 
of  what  is  farthest  removed  from  common  life  and  actual  obser- 
vation, that  is  of  the  least  practical  utility,  and  least  liable  to  be 
brought  to  the  test  of  experience,  and  that,  having  been  handed 
down  through  the  greatest  number  of  intermediate  stages,  is  the 
most  full  of  uncertainty,  difficulties,  and  contradictions.  It  is 
seeing  with  the  eyes  of  others,  hearing  with  their  ears,  and  pin- 
ning our  faith  on  their  understandings.  The  learned  man  prides 
himself  in  the  knowledge  of  names  and  dates,  not  of  men  or 


ON  THE  IGNORANCE  OF  THE  LEARNED.       49 


things.  He  thinks  and  cares  nothing  about  his  next-door  neigh- 
bours, but  he  is  deeply  read  in  the  tribes  and  easts  of  the  Hindoos 
and  Calmuc  Tartars.  He  can  hardly  find  his  way  into  the  next 
street,  though  he  is  acquainted  with  the  exact  dimensions  of  Con- 
stantinople and  Pekin.  He  does  not  know  whether  his  oldest 
acquaintance  is  a  knave  or  a  fool,  but  he  can  pronounce  a  pomp- 
ous lecture  on  all  the  principal  characters  in  history.  He  cannot 
tell  whether  an  object  is  black  or  white,  round  or  square,  and  yet 
he  is  a  professed  master  of  the  laws  of  optics  and  the  rules  of 
perspective.  He  knows  as  much  of  what  he  talks  about,  as  a 
blind  man  does  of  colours.  He  cannot  give  a  satisfactory  answer 
to  the  plainest  question,  nor  is  he  ever  in  the  right  in  any  one  of 
his  opinions,  upon  any  one  matter  of  fact  that  really  comes  before 
him,  and  yet  he  gives  himself  out  for  an  infallible  judge  on  all 
those  points  of  which  it  is  impossible  that  he  or  any  other  person 
living  should  know  anything  but  by  conjecture.  He  is  expert  in 
all  the  dead  and  in  most  of  the  living  languages ;  but  he  can 
neither  speak  his  own  fluently,  nor  write  it  correctly.  A  person 
of  this  class,  the  second  Greek  scholar  of  his  day,  undertook  to 
point  out  several  solecisms  in  Milton's  Latin  style ;  and  in  his 
own  performance  there  is  hardly  a  sentence  of  common  English. 

Such  was  Dr. .     Such  is  Dr. .     Such  was  not  Porson. 

He  was  an  exception  that  confirmed  the  general  rule, — a  man 
that,  by  uniting  talents  and  knowledge  with  learning,  made  the 
distinction  between  them  more  striking  and  palpable. 

A  mere  scholar,  who  knows  nothing  but  books,  must  be  ignorant 
even  of  them.  "  Books  do  not  teach  the  use  of  books."  How 
should  he  know  anything  of  a  work,  who  knows  nothing  of  the 
subject  of  it  ?  The  learned  pedant  is  conversant  with  books  only 
as  they  are  made  of  other  books,  and  those  again  of  others,  with- 
out end.  He  parrots  those  who  have  parroted  others.  He  can 
translate  the  same  word  into  ten  different  languages,  but  he  knows 
nothing  of  the  thing  which  it  means  in  any  one  of  them.  He  stuffs 
his  head  with  authorities  built  on  authorities,  with  quotations 
quoted  from  quotations,  while  he  locks  up  his  senses,  his  under- 
standing, and  his  heart.  He  is  unacquainted  with  the  maxims 
and  manners  of  the  world ;  he  is  to  seek  in  the  characters  of  in- 

3* 


50  TABLE  TALK. 


dividuals.  He  sees  no  beauty  in  the  face  of  nature  or  of  art. 
To  him  "  the  mighty  world  of  eye  and  ear"  is  hid  ;  and  "  know- 
ledge," except  at  one  entrance,  "quite  shut  out."  His  pride  takes 
part  with  his  ignorance ;  and  his  self-importance  rises  with  the 
number  of  things  of  which  he  does  not  know  the  value,  and  which 
he  therefore  despises  as  unworthy  of  his  notice.  He  knows  nothing 
of  pictures ; — "  of  the  colouring  of  Titian,  the  grace  of  Raphael, 
the  purity  of  Domenichino,  the  corregiescity  of  Correggio,  the 
learning  of  Poussin,  the  airs  of  Guido,  the  taste  of  the  Caracci, 
or  the  grand  contour  of  Michael  Angelo," — of  all  those  glories 
of  the  Italian  and  miracles  of  the  Flemish  school,  which  have 
filled  the  eyes  of  mankind  with  delight,  and  to  the  study  and  imi 
tation  of  which  thousands  have  in  vain  devoted  their  lives.  These 
are  to  him  as  if  they  had  never  been,  a  mere  dead  letter,  a  by- 
word ;  and  no  wonder :  for  he  neither  sees  nor  understands  their 
prototypes  in  nature.  A  print  of  Rubens's  Watering-place,  or 
Claude's  Enchanted  Castle,  may  be  hanging  on  the  walls  of  his 
room  for  months  without  his  once  perceiving  them ;  and  if  you 
point  them  out  to  him,  he  will  turn  away  from  them.  The  lan- 
guage of  nature  or  of  art  (which  is  another  nature)  is  one  that  he 
does  not  understand.  He  repeats  indeed  the  names  of  Apelles  and 
Phidias,  because  they  are  to  be  found  in  classic  authors,  and  boasts 
of  their  works  as  prodigies,  because  they  no  longer  exist ;  or  when 
he  sees  the  finest  remains  of  Grecian  art  actually  before  him  in 
the  Elgin  marbles,  takes  no  other  interest  in  them  than  as  they 
lead  to  a  learned  dispute,  and  (which  is  the  same  thing)  a  quarrel 
about  the  meaning  of  a  Greek  particle.  He  is  equally  ignorant 
of  music;  he  "knows  no  touch  of  it,"  from  the  strains  of  the  all- 
accomplished  Mozart  to  the  shepherd's  pipe  upon  the  mountain. 
His  ears  are  nailed  to  his  books ;  and  deadened  with  the  sound 
of  the  Greek  and  Latin  tongues,  and  the  din  and  smithery  of 
school-learning.  Does  he  know  anything  more  of  poetry  1  He 
knows  the  number  of  feet  in  a  verse,  and  of  acts  in  a  play ;  but 
of  the  soul  or  spirit  he  knows  nothing.  He  can  turn  a  Greek  ode 
into  English,  or  a  Latin  epigram  into  Greek  verse,  but  whether 
either  is  worth  the  trouble,  he  leaves  to  the  critics.  Does  he 
understand  "  the  act  and  practique  part  of  life"  better  than  "  the 


ON  THE  IGNORANCE  OF  THE  LEARNED.      51 

theorique  V  No.  He  knows  no  liberal  or  mecnanic  art ;  no 
trade  or  occupation  ;  no  game  of  skill  or  chance.  Learning  "  has 
no  skill  in  surgery,"  in  agriculture,  in  building,  in  working  in 
wood  ov  in  iron  ;  it  cannot  make  any  instrument  of  labour,  or  use 
it  when  made  ;  it  cannot  handle  the  plough  or  the  spade,  or  the 
chisel  or  the  hammer ;  it  knows  nothing  of  hunting  or  hawking, 
fishing  or  shooting,  of  horses  or  dogs,  of  fencing  or  dancing,  or 
cudgel-playing,  or  bowls,  or  cards,  or  tennis,  or  anything  else. 
The  learned  professor  of  all  arts  and  sciences  cannot  reduce  any 
one  of  them  to  practice,  though  he  may  contribute  an  account  of 
them  to  an  Encyclopaedia.  He  has  not  the  use  of  his  hands  or 
of  his  feet ;  he  can  neither  run,  nor  walk,  nor  swim ;  and  he 
considers  all  those  who  actually  understand  and  can  exercise  any 
of  these  arts  of  body  or  mind,  as  vulgar  and  mechanical  men  ; — 
though  to  know  almost,  any  one  of  them  in  perfection  requires 
long  time  and  practice,  with  powers  originally  fitted,  and  a  turn 
of  mind  particularly  devoted  to  them.  It  does  not  require  more 
than  this  to  enable  the  learned  candidate  to  arrive,  by  painful 
study,  at  a  Doctor's  degree  and  a  fellowship,  and  to  eat,  drink, 
and  sleep  the  rest  of  his  life  ! 

The  thing  is  plain.  All  that  men  really  understand,  is  con- 
fined to  a  very  small  compass ;  to  their  daily  affairs  and  experi- 
ence ;  to  what  they  have  an  opportunity  to  know,  and  motives  to 
study  or  practise.  The  rest  is  affectation  and  imposture.  The 
common  people  have  the  use  of  their  limbs ;  for  they  live  by 
their  labour  or  skill.  They  understand  their  own  business,  and 
the  characters  of  those  they  have  to  deal  with ;  for  it  is  neces- 
sary that  they  should.  They  have  eloquence  to  express  their 
passions,  and  wit  at  will  to  express  their  contempt  and  provoke 
laughter.  Their  natural  use  of  speech  is  not  hung  up  in  monu- 
mental mockery,  in  an  obsolete  language ;  nor  is  their  sense  of 
what  is  ludicrous,  or  readiness  at  finding  out  allusions  to  express 
it,  buried  in  collections  of  Anas.  You  will  hear  more  good 
thiugs  on  the  outside  of  a  stage-coach  from  London  to  Oxford, 
than  if  you  were  to  pass  a  twelvemonth  with  the  Undergraduates 
or  Heads  of  Colleges  of  that  famous  university ;  and  more  home 
truths  are  to  be  learnt  from  listening  to  a  noisy  debate  in  an  ale- 


52  TABLE  TALK. 


house,  than  from  attending  to  a  formal  one  in  the  House  of  Com- 
mons. An  elderly  country  gentlewoman  will  often  know  more 
of  character,  and  be  able  to  illustrate  it  by  more  amusing  anec- 
dotes taken  from  the  history  of  what  has  been  said,  done,  and 
gossiped  in  a  country  town  for  the  last  fifty  years,  than  the  best 
blue-stocking  of  the  age  will  be  able  to  glean  from  that  sort  of 
learning  which  consists  in  an  acquaintance  with  all  the  novels 
and  satirical  poems  published  in  the  same  period.  People  in 
towns,  indeed,  are  woefully  deficient  in  a  knowledge  of  charac- 
ter, which  they  see  only  in  the  bust,  not  as  a  whole-length.  Peo- 
ple in  the  country  not  only  know  all  that  has  happened  to  a  man, 
but  trace  his  virtues  or  vices,  as  they  do  his  features,  in  their  de- 
scent through  several  generations,  and  solve  some  contradiction 
in  his  behaviour  by  a  cross  in  the  breed,  half  a  century  ago. 
The  learned  know  nothing  of  the  matter,  either  in  town  or  coun. 
try.  Above  all,  the  mass  of  society  have  common  sense,  which 
the  learned  in  all  ages  want.  The  vulgar  are  in  the  right  when 
they  judge  for  themselves;  they  are  wrong  when  they  trust  to 
their  blind  guides.  The  celebrated  non-conformist  divine,  Bax- 
ter, was  almost  stoned  to  death  by  the  good  women  of  Kidder- 
minster, for  asserting  from  the  pulpit  that  "  hell  was  paved  with 
infants'  skulls;"  but  by  the  force  of  argument,  and  of  learned 
quotations  from  the  Fathers,  the  reverend  preacher  at  length 
prevailed  over  the  scruples  of  his  congregation,  and  over  reason 
and  humanity. 

Such  is  the  use  which  has  been  made  of  human  learning. 
The  labourers  in  this  vineyard  seem  as  if  it  was  their  object  to 
confound  all  common  sense,  and  the  distinctions  of  good  and  evil, 
by  means  of  traditional  maxims  and  preconceived  notions,  taken 
upon  trust,  and  increasing  in  absurdity  with  increase  of  age.  They 
pile  hypothesis  on  hypothesis,  mountain-high,  till  it  is  impossible  to 
come  at  the  plain  truth  on  any  question.  They  see  things,  not  as 
they  are,  but  as  they  find  them  in  books  ;  and  "  wink  and  shut  their 
apprehensions  up,"  in  order  that  they  may  discover  nothing  to 
interfere  with  their  prejudices,  or  convince  them  of  their  absur- 
dity. It  might  be  supposed,  that  the  height  of  human  wisdom 
consisted  in  maintaining  contradictions,  and  rendering  nonsense 
sacred.     There  is  no  dogma,  however  fierce  or  foolish,  to  which 


ON  THE  IGNORANCE  OF  THE  LEARNED.      53 


these  persons  have  not  set  their  seals,  and  tried  to  impose  on 
the  understandings  of  their  followers,  as  the  will  of  Heaven 
clothed  with  all  the  terrors  and  sanctions  of  religion.  How  lit- 
tle has  the  human  understanding  been  directed  to  find  out  the 
true  and  useful!  How  much  ingenuity  has, been  thrown  away 
in  the  defence  of  creeds  and  systems !  How  much  time  and 
talents  have  been  wasted  in  theological  controversy,  in  law,  in 
politics,  in  verbal  criticism,  in  judicial  astrology,  and  in  finding 
out  the  art  of  making  gold !  What  actual  benefit  do  we  reap 
from  the  writings  of  a  Laud  or  a  Whitgift,  or  of  Bishop  Bull  or 
Bishop  Waterland,  or  Prideaux'  Connections,  or  Beausobre,  or 
Calmet,  or  St.  Augustine,  or  Puffendorf,  or  Vattel,  or  from  the 
more  literal  but  equally  learned  and  unprofitable  labours  of 
Scaliger,  Cardan,  and  Scioppius  ?  How  many  grains  of  sense 
are  there  in  their  thousand  folio  or  quarto  volumes  ?  What 
would  the  world  lose,  if  they  were  committed  to  the  flames  to- 
morrow ?  Or  are  they  not  already  "  gont*  to  the  vault  of  all  the 
Capulets  ?"  Yet  all  these  were  oracles  in  their  time,  and  would 
have  scoffed  at  you  or  me,  at  common  sense  and  human  nature, 
for  differing  with  them.     It  is  our  turn  to  laugh  now. 

To  conclude  this  subject.  The  most  sensible  people  to  be  met 
with  in  society  are  men  of  business  and  of  the  world,  who  argue 
from  what  they  see  and  know,  >stead  of  spinning  cobweb  dis- 
tinctions of  what  things  ought  to  be.  Women  have  often  more  of 
what  is  called  good  sense  than  men.  They  have  fewer  preten- 
sions ;  are  less  implicated  in  theories  ;  and  iudge  of  objects 
more  from  their  immediate  and  involuntary  impression  on  the 
mind,  and,  therefore,  more  truly  and  naturally.  They  cannoi 
reason  wrong ;  for  they  do  not  reason  at  all.  They  do  not  think 
or  speak  by  rule  ;  and  they  have  in  general  more  eloquence  and 
wit,  as  well  as  sense,  on  that  account.  By  their  wit,  sense,  and 
eloquence  together,  they  generally  contrive  to  govern  their  hus 
bands.  Their  style,  when  they  write  to  their  friends,  (not  for  the 
booksellers,)  is  better  than  that  of  most  authors.  Uneducated 
people  have  most  exuberance  of  invention,  and  the  greatest 
freedom  from  prejudice.  Shakespear's  was  evidently  an  unedu- 
cated mind,  both  in  the  freshness  of  his  imagination,  and  in  the 
variety  of  his  views  ;  as  Milton's  was  scholastic,  in  the  texture 


afl  TABLE  TALK. 


both  of  his  thoughts  and  feelings.  Shakespear  had  not  been  ac- 
customed to  write  themes  at  school  in  favour  of  virtue  or  against 
vice.  To  this  we  owe  the  unaffected,  but  healthy  tone  of  his 
dramatic  morality.  If  we  wish  to  know  the  force  of  human 
genius,  we  should  read  Shakespear.  If  we  wish  to  see  the  insig 
nificance  of  human  learning,  we  may  study  his  commentators. 


ON  WILL-MAKING.  66 


ESSAY  VI. 

On  Will-Making. 

Few  things  show  the  human  character  in  a  more  ridiculous  light 
than  the  Circumstance  of  will-making.  It  is  the  latest  opportu- 
nity we  have  of  exercising  the  natural  perversity  of  the  disposi- 
tion, and  we  take  care  to  make  a  good  use  of  it.  We  husband  it 
with  jealousy;  put  it  off  as  long  as  we  can;  and  then  employ 
every  precaution  that  the  world  shall  be  no  gainer  by  our  deaths. 
This  last  act  of  our  lives  seldom  belies  the  former  tenor  of  them, 
for  stupidity,  caprice,  and  unmeaning  spite.  All  that  we  seem  to 
think  of  is  to  manage  matters  so  (in  settling  accounts  with  those 
who  are  unmannerly  enough  to  survive  us)  as  to  do  as  little 
good,  and  to  plague  and  disappoint  as  many  people  as  possible. 

Some  persons  have  a  superstition  on  the  subject  of  making 
their  last  will  and  testament,  and  think  that  when  every  thing  is 
ready  signed  and  sealed,  there  is  nothing  further  left  to  delay  their 
departure.  I  have  heard  of  an  instance  of  one  person  who, 
having  a  feeling  of  this  kind  on  his  mind,  and  being  teazed  into 
making  his  will  by  those  about  him,  actually  fell  ill  with  pure 
apprehension,  and  thought  he  was  going  to  die  in  good  earnest, 
but  having  executed  the  deed  over-night,  awoke,  to  his  great  sur- 
prise, the  next  morning,  and  found  himself  as  well  as  ever  he 
was.*  An  elderly  gentleman  possessed  of  a  good  estate  and  the 
same  idle  notion,  and  who  found  himself  in  a  dangerous  way,  was 

*  A  poor  woman  at  Plymouth,  who  did  not  like  the  formality,  or  could  not 
afford  the  expense  of  a  will,  thought  to  leave  what  little  property  she  had  in 
wearing-apparel  and  household  moveables  to  her  friends  and  relations,  vivd 
voce,  and  before  Death  stopped  her  breath.  She  gave  and  willed  away  (of  her 
proper  authority)  her  chair  and  table  to  one,  her  bed  to  another,  an  old  cloak 
to  a  third,  a  ught-cap  and  petticoat  to  a  fourth,  and  so  on.  The  old  cronea 
sat  weeping  round,  and  soon  after  carried  off  all  they  could  lay  their  hand* 
upon,  and  left  their  benefactress  to  her  fate.    They  were  no  sooner  gone  than 


56  TABLE  TALK. 


anxious  to  do  this  piece  of  justice  to  those  who  remained  behind 
him,  but  when  it  came  to  the  point,  his  heart  failed  him,  and  his 
nervous  fancies  returned  in  full  force  : — even  on  his  death-bed, 
he  still  held  back  and  was  averse  to  sign  what  he  looked  upon  as 
his  own  death-warrant,  and  just  at  the  last  gasp,  amidst  the 
anxious  looks  and  silent  upbraidings  of  friends  and  relatives  that 
surrounded  him,  he  summoned  resolution  to  hold  out  his  feeble 
hand,  which  was  guided  by  others  to  trace  his  name  and  he  fell 
back — a  corpse  !  If  there  is  any  pressing  reason  for  it,  that  is,  if 
any  particular  person  would  be  relieved  from  a  state  of  harass- 
ing uncertainty,  or  materially  benefitted  by  their  making  a  will, 
tne  old  and  infirm  (who  do  not  like  to  be  put  out  of  their  way) 
generally  make  this  an  excuse  to  themselves  for  putting  it  off  to 
the  very  last  moment,  probably  till  it  is  too  late  :  or  where  this  is 
sure  to  make  the  greatest  number  of  blank  faces,  contrive  to  give 
their  friends  the  slip,  without  signifying  their  final  determination 
in  their  favour.  Where  some  unfortunate  individual  has  been 
kept  long  in  suspense,  who  has  been  perhaps  sought  out  for  that 
very  purpose,  and  who  may  be  in  a  great  measure  dependent  on 
this  as  a  last  resource,  it  is  nearly  a  certainty  that  there  will  be  no 
will  to  be  found  ;  no  trace,  no  sign  to  discover  whether  the  person 
dying  thus  intestate  ever  had  any  intention  of  the  sort,  or  why 
they  relinquished  it.  This  is  to  bespeak  the  thoughts  and  imagi- 
nations of  others  for  victims  after  we  are  dead,  as  well  as  their 
persons  and  expectations  for  hangers-on  while  we  are  living.  A 
celebrated  beauty  of  the  middle  of  the  last  century,  towards  its 
close  sought  out  a  female  relative,  the  friend  and  companion  of 
her  youth,  who  had  lived  during  the  forty  years  of  their  separa- 
tion in  rather  straitened  circumstances,  and  in  a  situation  which 
admitted  of  some  alleviations.  Twice  they  met  after  that  long 
lapse  of  time — once  her  relation  visited  her  in  the  splendour  of 
a  rich  old  family-mansion,  and  once  she  crossed  the  country  to 
become  an  inmate  of  the  humble  dwelling  of  her  early  and  only 
remaining  friend.  What  was  this  for?  Was  it  to  revive  the 
image  of  her  youth  in  the  pale  and  care-worn  face  of  her  friend  ? 

she  unexpectedly  recovered,  and  sent  to  have  her  things  back  again  ;  but  not 
one  of  them  could  she  get,  and  she  was  left  without  a  rag  to  her  back,  or  a 
friend  to  condole  with  her. 


ON  WILL-MAKING,  57 

Or  was  it  to  display  the  decay  of  her  charms  and  recall  her 
long-forgotten  triumphs  to  the  memory  of  the  only  person  who 
could  bear  witness  to  them  ?  Was  it  to  show  the  proud  remains 
of  herself  to  those  who  remembered  or  had  often  heard  what  she 
was — her  skin  like  shrivelled  alabaster,  her  emaciated  features 
chiseled  by  nature's  finest  hand,  her  eyes  that  when  a  smile 
lighted  them  up,  still  shone  like  diamonds,  the  vermilion  hues 
that  still  bloomed  among  wrinkles?  Was  it  to  talk  of  bone-lace, 
of  the  flounces  and  brocades  of  the  last  century,  of  race-balls  in 
the  year  1762,  and  of  the  scores  of  lovers  that  had  died  at  her 
feet,  and  to  set  whole  counties  in  a  flame  again,  only,  with  a 
dream  of  faded  beauty  ?  Whether  it  was  for  this,  or  whether 
she  meant  to  leave  her  friend  any  thing  (as  was  indeed  expected, 
all  things  considered,  not  without  reason)  nobody  knows — for  she 
never  breathed  a  syllable  on  the  subject  herself,  and  died  without 
a  will.  The  accomplished  coquet  of  twenty,  who  had  pampered 
hopes  only  to  kill  them,  who  had  kindled  rapture  with  a  look  and 
extinguished  it  with  a  breath,  could  find  no  better  employment  at 
seventy  than  to  revive  the  fond  recollections  and  raise  up  the 
drooping  hopes  of  her  kinswoman,  only  to  let  them  fall — to  rise 
no  more.  Such  is  the  delight  we  have  in  trifling  with  and  tan- 
talizing the  feelings  of  others  by  the  exquisite  refinements,  the 
studied  sleights  of  love  or  friendship  ! 

WThen  a  property  is  actually  bequeathed,  supposing  the  cir- 
cumstances of  the  case  and  the  usages  of  society  to  leave  a 
practical  discretion  to  the  testator,  it  is  most  frequently  in  such 
portions  as  can  be  of  the  least  service.  Where  there  is  much 
already,  much  is  given  ;  where  much  is  wanted,  little  or  nothing. 
Poverty  invites  a  sort  of  pity,  a  miserable  dole  of  assistance  ;  ne- 
cessity is  dismissed  with  neglect  and  scorn ;  wealth  attracts  and 
allures  to  itself  more  wealth,  by  natural  association  of  ideas,  or 
by  that  innate  love  of  inequality  and  injustice,  which  is  the  fa- 
vourite principle  of  the  imagination.  Men  like  to  collect  money 
into  large  heaps  in  their  life-time  :  they  like  to  leave  it  in 
large  heaps  after  they  are  dead.  They  grasp  it  into  their  own 
hands,  not  to  use  it  for  their  own  good,  but  to  hoard,  to  lock  it 
up,  to  make  an  object,  an  idol,  and  a  wonder  of  it.  Do  you  ex- 
pect them  to  distribute  it  so  as  to  do  others  good  ;  that  they  wil 


58  TABLE  TALK. 


like  those  who  come  after  them  better  than  themselves  ;  that  if 
they  were  willing  to  pinch  and  starve  themselves,  they  will  not 
deliberately  defraud  their  sworn  friends  and  nearest  kindred  of 
what  would  be  of  the  utmost  use  to  them  ?  No,  they  will  thrust 
their  heaps  of  gold  and  silver  into  the  hands  of  others  (as  their 
proxies,)  to  keep  for  them  untouched,  still  increasing,  still  of  no 
use  to  any  one,  but  to  pamper  pride  and  avarice,  to  glitter  in  the 
huge,  watchful,  insatiable  eye  of  fancy,  to  be  deposited  as  a  new 
offering  at  the  shrine  of  Mammon,  their  God — this  is  with  them 
to  put  it  to  its  intelligible  and  proper  use,  this  is  fulfilling  a  sacred, 
indispensable  duty,  this  cheers  them  in  the  solitude  of  the  grave, 
and  throws  a  gleam  of  satisfaction  across  the  stony  eye  of  death. 
But  to  think  of  frittering  it  down,  of  sinking  it  in  charity,  of 
throwing  it  away  on  the  idle  claims  of  humanity,  where  it  would 
no  longer  peer  in  monumental  pomp  over  their  heads  ;  and  that 
too  when  on  the  point  of  death  themselves,  in  articulo  mortis,  oh ! 
it  would  be  madness,  waste,  extravagance,  impiety !  Thus 
worldlings  feel  and  argue  without  knowing  it ;  and  while  they 
fancy  they  are  studying  their  own  interest  or  that  of  some  booby 
successor,  their  alter  idem,  are  but  the  dupes  and  puppets  of  a 
favourite  idea,  a  phantom,  a  prejudice,  that  must  be  kept  up 
somewhere  (no  matter  where),  if  it  still  plays  before  and  haunts 
their  imagination  while  they  have  sense  or  understanding  left 
— to  cling  to  their  darling  follies. 

There  was  a  remarkable  instance  of  this  tendency  to  the  heap, 
this  desire  to  cultivate  an  abstract  passion  for  wealth,  in  a  will 
of  one  of  the  Thellusons  some  time  back.  This  will  went  to 
keep  the  greater  part  of  a  large  property  from  the  use  of  the  na- 
tural heirs  and  next-of-kin  for  a  length  of  time,  and  to  let  it  ac- 
cumulate at  compound  interest  in  such  a  way  and  so  long,  that 
it  would  at  last  amount  up  in  value  to  the  purchase-money  of  a 
whole  county.  The  interest  accruing  from  the  funded  property 
or  the  rent  of  the  lands  at  certain  periods,  was  to  be  employed  to 
purchase  other  estates,  other  parks  and  manors  in  the  neighbour- 
hood or  farther  off,  so  that  the  prospect  of  the  future  demesne 
that  was  to  devolve  at  some  distant  time  to  the  unborn  lord  of 
acres,  swelled  and  enlarged  itself,  like  a  sea,  circle  without  cir- 
cle, vista  beyond  vista,  till  the  imagination  was  staggered,  and 


ON  WILL-MAKING.  &9 


the  mind  exhausted.  Now  here  was  a  scheme  for  the  accumula- 
tion of  wealth  and  for  laying  the  foundation  of  family-aggrandise- 
ment purely  imaginary,  romantic — one  might  almost  say,  disin- 
terested. The  vagueness,  the  magnitude,  the  remoteness  of  the 
object,  the  resolute  sacrifice  of  all  immediate  and  gross  advan- 
tages, clothe  it  with  the  privileges  of  an  abstract  idea,  so  that  the 
project  has  the  air  of  a  fiction  or  of  a  story  in  a  novel.  It  was 
an  instance  of  what  might  be  called  posthumous  avarice,  like 
the  love  of  posthumous  fame.  It  had  little  more  to  do  with  selfish- 
ness than  if  the  testator  had  appropriated  the  same  sums  in  the 
same  way  to  build  a  pyramid,  to  construct  an  aqueduct,  to  en- 
dow an  hospital,  or  effect  any  other  patriotic  or  merely  fantastic 
purpose.  He  wished  to  heap  up  a  pile  of  wealth  (millions  of 
acres)  in  the  dim  horizon  of  future  years,  that  could  be  of  no 
use  to  him  or  to  those  with  whom  he  was  connected  by  positive 
and  persons  ties,  but  as  a  crotchet  of  the  brain,  a  gew-gaw  of  the 
fancy.*  Yet  to  enable  himself  to  put  this  scheme  in  execution, 
he  had  perhaps  toiled  and  watched  all  his  life,  denied  himself 
rest,  food,  pleasure,  liberty,  society,  and  persevered  with  the  pa- 
tience and  self-denial  of  a  martyr.  I  have  insisted  on  this  point 
the  more,  to  show  how  much  of  the  imaginary  and  speculative 
there  is  interfused  even  in  those  passions  and  purposes  which 
have  not  the  good  of  others  for  their  object,  and  how  little  reason 
this  honest  citizen  and  builder  of  castles  jn  the  air  would  have 
had  to  treat  those  who  devoted  themselves  to  the  pursuit  of  fame, 
to  obloquy  and  persecution  for  the  sake  of  truth  and  liberty,  or 
who  sacrificed  their  lives  for  their  country  in  a  just  cause,  as 
visionaries  and  enthusiasts,  who  did  not  understand  what  was 
properly  due  to  their  own  interest  and  the  securing  of  the  main- 
chance.  Man  is  not  the  creature  of  sense  and  selfishness,  even 
in  those  pursuits  which  grow  up  out  of  that  origin,  so  much  as  o 
imagination,  custom,  passion,  whim,  and  humour. 

I  have  heard  of  a  singular  instance  of  a  will  made  by  a  person 
who  was  addicted  to  a  habit  of  lying.  He  was  so  notorious  for 
this  propensity  (not  out  of  spite  or  cunning,  but  as  a  gratuitous 

*  The  law  of  primogeniture  has  its  origin  in  the  principle  here  stated,  the 
desire  of  perpetuating  some  one  palpable  and  prominent  proof  of  wealth 
and  power. 


60  TABLE  TALK. 


exercise  of  invention),  that  from  a  child  no  one  could  ever  be- 
lieve a  syllable  he  uttered.  From  the  want  of  any  dependence 
to  be  placed  on  him,  he  became  the  jest  and  by-word  of  the 
school  where  he  was  brought  up.  The  last  act  of  his  life  did  not 
uisgrace  him.  For  having  gone  abroad,  and  falling  into  a 
dangerous  decline,  he  was  advised  to  return  home.  He  paid  all 
that  he  was  worth  for  his  passage,  went  on  ship-board,  and  em- 
ployed the  few  remaining  days  he  had  to  live  in  making  and  ex- 
ecuting his  will ;  in  which  he  bequeathed  large  estates  in  differ- 
ent parts  of  England,  money  in  the  funds,  rich  jewels,  rings,  and 
all  kinds  of  valuables,  to  his  old  friends  and  acquaintance,  who 
not  knowing  how  far  the  force  of  nature  could  go,  were  not  for 
some  time  convinced  that  all  this  fairy  wealth  had  never  had  an 
existence  any  where  but  in  the  idle  coinage  of  his  brain,  whose 
whims  and  projects  were  no  more ! — The  extreme  keeping  in  this 
character  is  only  to  be  accounted  for  by  supposing  such  an  origi- 
nal constitutional  levity  as  made  truth  entirely  indifferent  to  him, 
and  the  serious  importance  attached  to  it  by  others  an  object  of 
perpetual  sport  and  ridicule  ! 

The  art  of  will-making  chiefly  consists  in  baffling  the  impor- 
tunity of  expectation.  I  do  not  so  much  find  fault  with  this 
when  it  is  done  as  a  punishment  and  oblique  satire  on  servility 
and  selfishness.  It  is  in  that  case  Diamond  cut  Diamond — a  trial 
of  skill  between  the  legacy-hunter  and  the  legacy-maker,  which 
shall  fool  the  other.  The  cringing  toad-eater,  the  officious  tale- 
bearer, is  perhaps  well  paid  for  years  of  obsequious  attendance 
with  a  bare  mention  and  a  mourning-ring ;  nor  can  I  think  that 
Gil  Bias'  library  was  not  quite  as  much  as  the  coxcombry  of  his 
pretensions  deserved.  There  are  some  admirable  scenes  in  Ben 
Jonson's  Volpone,  showing  the  humours  of  a  legacy-hunter,  and 
the  different  .ways  of  putting  him  off  with  excuses  and  assurances 
of  not  being  forgotten.  Yet  it  is  hardly  right,  after  all,  to  en- 
courage this  kind  of  pitiful,  bare- faced  intercourse  without  mean- 
ing to  pay  for  it ;  as  the  coquet  has  no  right  to  jilt  the  lovers  she 
lias  trifled  with.  Flattery  and  submission  are  marketable  com- 
modities like  any  other,  have  their  price,  and  ought  scarcely  to 
be  obtained  under  false  pretences.  If  we  see  through  and  des- 
pise the  wretched  creature  that  attempts  to  impose  on  our  credu- 


ON  WILL-MAKING.  61 

lity,  we  can  at  any  time  dispense  with  his  services :  if  we  are 
soothed  by  this  mockery  of  respect  and  friendship,  why  not  in- 
demnify him  like  any  other  drudge,  or  as  we  satisfy  the  actor 
who  performs  a  part  in  a  play  by  our  particular  desire  ?  But 
often  these  premeditated  disappointments  are  as  unjust  as  they 
are  cruel,  and  are  marked  with  circumstances  of  indignity,  in 
proportion  to  the  worth  of  the  object.  The  suspecting,  the 
taking  it  for  granted  that  your  name  is  down  in  a  will,  is  sufficient 
provocation  to  have  it  struck  out :  the  hinting  at  an  obligation, 
the  consciousness  of  it  on  the  part  of  the  testator,  will  make  him 
determined  to  avoid  the  formal  acknowledgment  of  it,  at  any 
expense.  The  disinheriting  of  relations  is  mostly  for  venial  of- 
fences, not  for  base  actions :  we  punish  out  of  pique,  to  revenge 
some  instance  in  which  we  have  been  disappointed  of  our  wills, 
some  act  of  disobedience  to  what  had  no  reasonable  ground  to  go 
upon :  and  we  are  obstinate  in  adhering  to  our  resolution,  as  it 
was  sudden  and  rash,  and  doubly  bent  on  asserting  our  authority 
in  what  we  have  least  right  to  interfere  in.  It  is  the  wound  in- 
flicted upon  our  self-love,  not  the  stain  upon  the  character  of  the 
thoughtless  offender,  that  calls  for  condign  punishment.  Crimes, 
vices,  may  go  unchecked,  or  unnoticed  :  but  it  is  the  laughing  at 
our  weaknesses,  or  thwarting  our  humours,  that  is  never  to  be  for- 
gotten. It  is  not  the  errors  of  others,  but  our  own  miscalculations, 
on  which  we  wreak  our  lasting  vengeance.  It  is  ourselves  that 
we  cannot  forgive.  In  the  will  of  Nicholas  Gimcrack,  the  vir- 
tuoso recorded  in  the  Tatler,  we  learn,  among  other  items,  that  his 
eldest  son  is  cut  off  with  a  single  cockle-shell  for  his  undutiful 
behaviour  in  laughing  at  his  little  sister  whom  his  father  kept 
preserved  in  spirits  of  wine.  Another  of  his  relations  has  a  col- 
lection of  grasshoppers  bequeathed  him,  as  in  the  testator's  opin- 
ion an  adequate  reward  and  acknowledgment  due  to  his  merit. 
The  whole  will  of  the  said  Nicholas  Gimcrack,  Esq.,  is  a  curious 
document  and  exact  picture  of  the  mind  of  the  worthy  virtuoso 
defunct,*    where    his   various    follies,   littlenesses,   and    quaint 

•  It  is  as  follows :  # 

"  The  Will  of  a  Virtuoso. 
" 1,  Nicholas  Gimcrack,  being  in  sound  Health  of  Mind,  but  in  great 


62  TABLE  TALK. 


humours  are  set  forth,  as  orderly  and  distinct  as  his  butterflies 
wings  and  cockle-shells  and  skeletons  of  fleas  in  glass-cases. 

We  often  successfully  try  in  this  way  to  give  the  finishing 
stroke  to  our  pictures,  hang  up  our  weaknesses  in  perpetuity, 
and  embalm  our  mistakes  in  the  memories  of  others. 

"  Even  from  the  tomb  the  voice  of  nature  cries, 
Even  in  our  ashes  live  their  wonted  fires." 

I  shall  not  speak  here  of  unwarrantable  commands  imposed 
upon  survivors,  by  which  they  were  to  carry  into  effect  the  sul- 

Wea&ness  of  Body,  do  by  this  my  Last  Will  and  Testament  bequeath  my 
worldly  Goods  and  Chattels  in  Manner  following: 
Imprimis,  To  my  dear  Wife, 

One  Box  of  Butterflies, 
One  Drawer  of  Shells, 
A  Female  Skeleton, 
A  dried  Cockatrice. 
Item,  To  my  Daughter  Elizabeth, 

My  Receipt  for  preserving  dead  Caterpillars. 

As  also  my  Preparations  of  Winter  May-Dew,  and  Embryo  Pickle. 
Item,  To  my  little  Daughter  Fanny, 
Three  Crocodile's  Eggs. 
And  upon  the  Birth  of  her  first  Child,  if  she  marries  with  her  Mother" » 

Consent, 
The  Nest  of  a  Humming-Bird. 
Item,  To  my  eldest  Brother,  as  an  Acknowledgment  for  the  Lands  he  has 
vested  in  my  Son  Charles,  I  bequeath 
My  last  Year's  Collection  of  Grasshoppers. 
Hem,  To  his  Daughter  Susanna,  being  his  only  Child,  I  bequeath  my 
English  Weeds  pasted  on  Royal  Paper, 
With  my  large  Folio  of  Indian  Cabbage. 


Having  fully  provided  for  my  Nephew  Isaac,  by  making  over  to  him,  soma 
Years  since, 

A  Horned  Scarabozus, 

The  Skin  of  a  Rattle-Snake,  and 

The  mummy  of  an  Egyptian  King, 
I  make  no  further  Provision  for  him  in  this  my  Will. 

My  eldest  Son  John  having  spoken  disrespectfully  of  his  little  Sister,  whom 
I  keep  by  me  in  Spirits  of  Wine,  and  in  many  other  Instances  behaved 
himself  undutifully  towards  me,  I  do  disinherit,  and  wholly  cut  off  from  any 
Part  of  this  my  Personal,Estate,  by  giving  him  a  single  Cockle-Shell. 

To  my  Second  Son  Charles,  I  give  and  bequeath  all  my  Flowers,  Plants, 
Minerals,  Mosses,  Shells,  Pebbles,  Fossils,  Beetles,  Butterflies,  Caterpillars, 


ON  WILL-MAKING.  63 

len  and  revengeful  purposes  of  unprincipled  men,  after  they  had 
breathed  their  last :  but  we  meet  with  continual  examples  of  the 
desire  to  keep  up  the  farce  (if  not  the  tragedy)  of  life,  after  we, 
the  performers  in  it,  have  quitted  the  stage,  and  to  have  our 
parts  rehearsed  by  proxy.  We  thus  make  a  caprice  immortal, 
a  peculiarity  proverbial.  Hence  we  see  the  number  of  legacies 
and  fortunes  left,  on  condition  that  the  legatee  shall  take  the 
name  and  style  of  the  testator,  by  which  device  we  provide  for 
the  continuance  of  the  sounds  that  formed  our  names — and  endow 
them  with  an  estate,  that  they  may  be  repeated  with  proper  re- 
spect. In  the  Memoirs  of  an  Heiress,  all  the  difficulties  of  the 
plot  turn  on  the  necessity  imposed  by  a  clause  in  her  uncle's 
will,  that  her  future  husband  should  take  the  family-name  of 
Beverley.  Poor  Cecilia !  What  delicate  perplexities  she  was 
thrown  into  by  this  improvident  provision;  and  with  what  minute, 
endless,  intricate  distresses  has  the  fair  authoress  been  enabled 
to  harrow  up  the  reader  on  this  account !  There  was  a  Sir 
Thomas  Dyot  in  the  reign  of  Charles  II.,  who  left  the  whole 
range  of  property  which  forms  Dyot-street  in  St.  Giles's  and  the 
neighbourhood,  on  the  sole  and  express  condition  that  it  should 
be  appropriated  entirely  to  that  sort  of  buildings,  and  to  the  re- 
ception of  that  sort  of  population,  which  still  keep  undisputed,  un- 
divided possession  of  it.  The  name  was  changed  the  other  day 
to  George-street,  as  a  more  genteel  appellation,  which,  I  should 
think,  is  an  indirect  forfeiture  of  the  estate.  This  Sir  Thomas 
Dyot  I  should  be  disposed  to  put  upon  the  list  of  old  English  wor- 
thies— as  humane,  liberal,  and  no  flincher  from  what  he  took  in 
his  head.  He  was  no  common-place  man  in  his  line.  He  was 
the  best  commentator  on  that  old-fashioned  text — "  The  foxes 
have  holes,  and  the  birds  of  the  air  have  nests,  but  the  son  of 
man  hath  not  where  to  lay  his  head." — We  find  some  that  are 
curious  in  the  mode  in  which  they  shall  be  buried,  and  others 

Grasshoppers,  and  Vermin,  not  above  specified:  As  also  all  my  Monsters, 
both  wet  and  dry,  making  the  said  Charles  whole  and  sole  Executor  of  this 
my  Last  Will  and  Testament,  he  paying  or  causing  to  be  paid  the  aforesaid 
Legacies  within  the  Space  of  Six  Months  after  my  Decease.  And  I  do 
hereby  revoke  all  other  Wills  whatsoever  by  me  formerly  made." — Tatler, 
Vol.  IV.,  No.  216. 


64  TABLE  TALK. 


in  the  place.  Lord  Camelford  had  his  remains  buried  under  an 
ash-tree  that  grew  on  one  of  the  mountains  in  Switzerland  ;  and 
Sir  Francis  Bourgeois  had  a  little  mausoleum  built  for  him  in  the 
College  at  Dulwich,  where  he  once  spent  a  pleasant,  jovial  day 
with  the  Masters  and  Wardens.*  It  is,  no  doubt,  proper  to  at- 
tend, except  for  good  reasons  to  the  contrary,  to  these  sort  of  re- 
quests ;  for  by  breaking  faith  with  the  dead,  we  loosen  the  confi- 
dence of  the  living.  Besides,  there  is  a  stronger  argument :  we 
sympathise  with  the  dead  as  well  as  with  the  living,  and  are  bound 
to  them  by  the  most  sacred  of  all  ties,  our  own  involuntary  fel- 
low-feeling with  others  ! 

Thieves,  as  a  last  donation,  leave  advice  to  their  friends,  phy- 
sicians a  nostrum,  authors  a  manuscript  work,  rakes  a  confes- 
sion of  their  faith  in  the  virtue  of  the  sex — all,  the  last  drivellings 
of  their  egotism  and  impertinence.  One  might  suppose  that  if  any 
thing  could, 'the  approach  and  contemplation  of  death  might  bring 
men  to  a  sense  of  reason  and  self-knowledge.  On  the  contrary, 
it  seems  only  to  deprive  them  of  the  little  wit  they  had,  and  to 
make  them  even  more  the  sport  of  their  wilfulness  and  short- 
sightedness. Some  men  think  that  because  they  are  going  to  be 
hanged,  they  are  fully  authorized  to  declare  a  future  state  of  re- 
wards and  punishments.  All  either  indulge  their  caprices  or 
cling  to  their  prejudices.  They  make  a  desperate  attempt  to  es- 
cape from  reflection  by  taking  hold  of  any  whim  or  fancy  that 
crosses  their  minds,  or  by  throwing  themselves  implicitly  on  old 
habits  and  attachments. 

An  old  man  is  twice  a  child  :  the  dying  man  becomes  the  pro- 
perty of  his  family.  He  has  no  choice  left,  and  his  voluntary 
power  is  merged  in  old  saws  and  prescriptive  usages.  The  pro- 
perty we  have  derived  from  our  kindred  reverts  tacitly  to  them : 
and  not  to  let  it  take  its  course,  is  a  sort  of  violence  done  to  na- 
ture as  well  as  custom.  The  idea  of  property,  of  something  in 
common,  does  not  mix  cordially  with  friendship,  but  is  insepara- 

*  Kellerman  lately  left  his  heart  to  be  buried  in  the  field  of  Valmy,  where 
the  first  great  battle  was  fought  in  the  year  1792,  in  which  the  Allies  were  re- 
Dulsed.  Oh !  might  that  heart  prove  the  root  from  which  the  tree  of  Liberty 
may  spring  up  and  flourish  once  more,  as  the  basil-tree  grew  and  grew  from 
the  cherished  head  of  Isabella's  lover ! 


Otf  WILL-MAKING.  «j 


ble  from  near  relationship.  We  owe  a  return  in  kind,  where  we 
feel  no  obligation  for  a  favour  ;  and  consign  our  possessions  to 
our  next  of  kin  as  mechanically  as  we  lean  our  heads  on  the  pil- 
low, and  go  out  of  the  world  in  tl  e  same  state  of  stupid  amaze- 
ment that  we  came  into  it  1 


66  TABLE  TALK. 


ESSAY  VII. 

On  a  Landscape  of  Nicholas  Poussin. 

"  And  blind  Orion  hungry  for  the  morn." — Keats. 

Orion,  the  subject  of  this  landscape,  was  the  classical  Nimrod; 
and  is  called  by  Homer,  "  a  hunter  of  shadows,  himself  a  shade." 
he  was  the  son  of  Neptune  ;  and  having  lost  an  eye  in  some  af- 
fray between  the  Gods  and  men,  was  told  that  if  he  would  go  to 
meet  the  rising  sun,  he  would  recover  his  sight.  He  is  repre- 
sented setting  out  on  his  journey,  with  men  on  his  shoulders  to 
guide  him,  a  bow  in  his  hand,  and  Diana  in  the  clouds  greeting 
mm.  He  stalks  along,  a  giant  upon  earth,  and  reels  and  falters 
in  his  gait,  as  if  just  awaked  out  of  sleep,  or  uncertain  of  his 
way  ; — you  see  his  blindness,  though  his  back  is  turned.  Mists 
rise  around  him,  and  veil  the  sides  of  the  green  forests  ;  earth 
is  dank  and  fresh  with  dews,  the  "  grey  dawn  and  the  Pleiades 
betbre  him  dance,"  and  in  the  distance  are  seen  the  blue  hills 
and  sullen  ocean.  Nothing  was  ever  more  finely  conceived  or 
done.  The  picture  breathes  the  spirit  of  the  morning  ;_  its  mois- 
ture, its  repose,  its  obscurity,  wanting  the  miracle  of  light  to  kin- 
dle it  into  smiles  :  the  whole  is,  like  the  principal  figure  in  it,  "  a 
forerunner  of  the  dawn."  The  same  atmosphere  tinges  and  im- 
bues every  object,  the  same  dull  light  "  shadowy  sets  off"  the 
face  of  nature  :  one  feeling  of  vastness,  of  strangeness,  and  of 
primeval  forms,  pervades  the  painter's  canvas,  and  we  are  thrown 
back  upon  the  first  integrity  of  things. 

This  great  and-  learned  man  might  be  said  to  see  nature 
through  the  glass  of  time  ;  he  alone  has  a  right  to  be  considered 
as  the  painter  of  classical  antiquity.  Sir  Joshua  has  done  him 
justice  in  this  respect.  He  could  give  to  the  scenery  of  his  he- 
roic  fables  the  unimpaired  look  of  original  nature,  full,  solid, 
large,  luxuriant,  teeming  with  life  and  power  ;  or  deck  it  with 


ON  A  LANDSCAPE  OF  NICOLAS  POUSSIN.  67 

all  the  pomp  of  art,  with  temples  and  towers,  and  mythologic 
groves.  His  pictures  "  denote  a  foregone  conclusion."  He  ap- 
plies nature  to  his  purposes,  works  out  her  images  according  to 
the  standard  of  his  thoughts,  embodies  high  fictions  ;  and  the  first 
conception  being  given,  all  the  rest  seems  to  grow  out  of,  and  be 
assimilated  to  it,  by  the  unfailing  process  of  a  studious  imagina- 
tion. Like  his  own  Orion,  he  overlooks  the  surrounding  scene, 
appears  to  "  take  up  the  isles  as  a  very  little  thing,  and  to  lay 
the  earth  in  a  balance."  With  a  laborious  and  mighty  grasp, 
he  put  nature  into  the  mould  of  the  ideal  and  antique ;  and  was 
among  painters  (more  than  any  one  else)  what  Milton  was  among 
poets.  There  is  in  both  something  of  the  same  pedantry,  the 
same  stiffness,  the  same  elevation,  the  same  grandeur,  the  same 
mixture  of  art  and  nature,  the  same  richness  of  borrowed  mate- 
rials, the  same  unity  of  character.  Neither  the  poet  nor  the 
painter  lowered  the  subjects  they  treated,  but  filled  up  the  outline 
in  the  fancy,  and  added  strength  and  prominence  to  it ;  and  thus 
not  only  satisfied,  but  surpassed  the  expectations  of  the  spectator 
and  the  reader.  This  should  be  held  for  the  triumph  and  the 
perfection  of  works  of  art.  To  give  us  nature,  such  as  we  see 
it,  is  well  and  deserving  of  praise ;  to  give  us  nature  such  as  we 
have  never  seen,  but  have  often  wished  to  see  it,  is  better,  and 
deserving  of  higher  praise.  He  who  can  show  the  world  in  its 
first  naked  glory,  with  the  hues  of  fancy  spread  over  it,  or  in  its 
high  and  palmy  state,  with  the  gravity  of  history  stamped  on  the 
proud  monuments  of  vanished  empire, — who,  by  his  "  so  potent 
art,"  can  recall  time  past,  transport  us  to  distant  places,  and 
join  the  regions  of  imagination  (a  new  conquest)  to  those  of  re- 
ality,— who  teaches  us  not  only  what  nature  is,  but  what  she  has 
been,  and  is  capable  of  being, — he  who  does  this,  and  does  it 
with  simplicity,  with  truth,  and  grandeur,  is  lord  of  nature  and 
her  powers  ;  and  his  mind  is  universal,  and  his  art  the  master- 
art  ! 

There  is  nothing  in  this  "  more  than  natural,"  if  criticism 
could  be  persuaded  to  think  so.  The  historic  painter  does  not 
neglect  or  contravene  nature,  but  follows  her  more  closely  up 
into  her  fantastic  heights,  or  hidden  recesses.  He  demonstrates 
what  she  "would  be  in  conceivable  circumstances,  and  under  im- 


68  TABLE  TALK. 


plied  conditions.  He  "  gives  to  airy  nothing  a  local  habitation," 
not  "  a  name."  At  his  touch j  words  start  up  into  images, 
thoughts  become  things.  He  clothes  a  dream,  a  phantom  with 
form  and  colour,  and  the  wholesome  attributes  of  reality.  His 
art  is  a  second  nature  ;  not  a  different  one.  There  are  those,  in- 
deed, who  think  that  not  to  copy  nature,  is  the  rule  for  attaining 
perfection.  Because  they  cannot  paint  the  objects  which  they 
have  seen,  they  fancy  themselves  qualified  to  paint  the  ideas 
which  they  have  not  seen.  But  it  is  possible  to  fail  in  this  latter 
and  more  difficult  style  of  imitation,  as  well  as  in  the  former 
humbler  one.  The  detection,  it  is  true,  is  not  so  easy,  because 
the  objects  are  not  so  nigh  at  hand  to  compare ;  and  therefore 
there  is  more  room  both  for  false  pretension  and  for  self-deceit. 
They  take  an  epic  motto  or  subject,  and  conclude  that  the  spirit 
is  implied  as  a  thing  of  course.  They  paint  inferior  portraits, 
maudlin  lifeless  faces,  without  ordinary  expression,  or  one  look, 
feature,  or  particle  of  nature  in  them,  and  think  that  this  is  to 
rise  to  the  truth  of  history.  They  vulgarise  and  degrade  what- 
ever is  interesting  or  sacred  to  the  mind,  and  suppose  that  they 
thus  add  to  the  dignity  of  their  profession.  They  represent  a 
face  that  seems  as  if  no  thought  or  feeling  of  any  kind  had  ever 
passed  through  it,  and  would  have  you  believe  that  this  is  the 
very  sublime  of  expression,  such  as  it  would  appear  in  heroes,  or 
demi-gods  of  old,  when  rapture  or  agony  was  carried  to  its 
height.  They  show  you  a  landscape  that  looks  as  if  the  sun 
never  shone  upon  it,  and  tell  you  that  it  is  not  modern — that  so 
earth  looked  when  Titan  first  kissed  it  with  his  rays.  This  is 
not  the  true  ideal.  It  is  not  to  fill  the  moulds  of  the  imagination, 
but  to  deface  and  injure  them  :  it  is  not  to  come  up  to,  but  to  fall 
short  of  the  poorest  conception  in  the  public  mind.  Such  pic. 
tures  should  not  be  hung  in  the  same  room  with  that  of  Orion.* 

*  Every  thing  tends  to  show  the  manner  in  which  a  great  artist  is  formed 
If  any  person  could  claim  an  exemption  from  the  careful  imitation  of  individ- 
ual objects,  it  was  Nicolas  Poussin.  He  studied  the  antique,  but  he  also 
studied  nature.  "  I  have  often  admired,"  says  Vignuel  de  Marville,  who 
knew  him  at  a  late  period  of  his  life,  "  the  love  he  had  for  his  art.  Old  as  he 
was,  I  frequently  saw  him  among  the  ruins  of  ancient  Rome,  out  in  the  Cam- 
pagna,  or  along  the  banks  of  the  Tiber,  sketching  a  scene  that  had  pleased 
him ;  and  I  often  met  him  with  his  handkerchief  full  of  stones,  moss,  or  flow- 


ON  A  LANDSCAPE  OP  NICOLAS  POUSSIN.  69 

Poussin  was,  of  all  painters,  the  most  poetical.  He  was  the 
painter  of  ideas.  No  one  ever  told  a  story  half  so  well ;  nor  so 
well  knew  what  was  capable  of  being  told  by  the  pencil.  He 
seized  on,  and  struck  off  with  grace  and  precision,  just  that  point 
of  view  which  would  be  likely  to  catch  the  reader's  fancy. 
There  is  a  significance,  a  consciousness  in  whatever  he  does 
(sometimes  a  vice,  but  oftener  a  virtue)  beyond  any  other  paint- 
er. His  Giants  sitting  on  the  tops  of  craggy  mountains,  as  huge 
themselves,  and  playing  idly  on  their  Pan's-pipes,  seem  to  have 
been  seated  there  these  three  thousand  years,  and  to  know  the 
beginning  and  the  end  of  their  own  story.  An  infant  Bacchus 
or  Jupiter  is  big  with  his  future  destiny.  Even  inanimate  and 
dumb  things  speak  a  language  of  their  own.  His  snakes,  the 
messengers  of  fate,  are  inspired  with  human  intellect.  His  trees 
grow  and  expand  their  leaves  in  the  air,  glad  ojf  the  rain,  proud 
of  the  sun,  awake  to  the  winds  of  heaven.  In  his  Plague  of 
Athens,  the  very  buildings  seem  stiff  with  horror.  His  picture 
of  the  Deluge  is,  perhaps,  the  finest  historical  landscape  in  the 
world.  You  see  a  waste  of  waters,  wide,  interminable  :  the  sun 
is  labouring,  wan  and  weary,  up  the  sky ;  the  clouds,  dull  and 
leaden,  lie  like  a  load  upon  the  eye,  and  heaven  and  earth  seem 
commingling  into  one  confused  mass !  His  human  figures  are 
sometimes  "  o'er-informed  "  with  this  kind  of  feeling.  Their  ac- 
tions have  too  much  gesticulation,  and  the  set  expression  of  the 
features  borders  too  much  on  the  mechanical  and  caricatured 
style.     In  this  respect,  they  form  a  contrast  to  Raphael's,  whose 

ers,  which  he  carried  home,  that  he  might  copy  them  exactly  from  nature. 
One  day  I  asked  him  how  he  had  attained  to  such  a  degree  of  perfection,  as  to 
have  gained  so  high  a  rank  among  the  great  painters  of  Italy  1  He  answered, 
I  have  neglected  nothing." — See  his  Life  lately  published.  It  appears  from 
this  account  that  he  had  not  fallen  into  a  recent  error,  that  Nature  puts  the 
man  of  genius  out.  As  a  contrast  to  the  foregoing  description,  I  might  men- 
tion, that  I  remember  an  old  gentleman  once  asking  Mr.  West  in  the  Bri- 
tish Gallery,  if  he  had  ever  been  in  Athens'?  To  which  the  president  made 
answer,  No ;  nor  did  he  feel  any  great  desire  to  go  ;  for  that  he  thought  he  had 
as  good  an  idea  of  the  place  from  the  Catalogue,  as  he  could  get  by  living 
there  for  any  number  of  years.  "What  would  he  have  said,  if  any  one  had  told 
him,  he  could  get  as  good  an  idea  of  the  subject  of  one  of  his  great  works  from 
reading  the  catalogue  of  it,  as  from  seeing  the  picture  itse!f !  Yet  the  answer 
was  characteristic  of  the  genius  of  the  painter. 


70  TABLE  TALK. 

figures  never  appear  to  be  sitting  for  their  pictures,  or  to  be  coil' 
scious  of  a  spectator,  or  to  have  come  from  the  painter's  hand. 
In  Nicolas  Poussin,  on  the  contrary,  every  thing  seems  to  have 
a  distinct  understanding  with  the  artist :  "  the  very  stones,  prate 
of  their  whereabout :"  each  object  has  its  pai*t  and  place  as- 
signed, and  is  in  a  sort  of  compact  with  the  rest  of  the  picture. 
It  is  this  conscious  keeping,  and,  as  it  were,  internal  design,  that 
gives  their  peculiar  character  to  the  works  of  our  artist.  There 
was  a  picture  of  Aurora  in  the  British  Gallery  a  year  or  two 
ago.  It  was  a  suffusion  of  golden  light.  The  Goddess  wore  her 
saffron-coloured  robes,  and  appeared  just  risen  from  the  gloomy 
bed  of  old  Tithonus.  Her  very  steeds,  milk-white,  were  tinged 
with  the  yellow  dawn.  It  was  a  personification  of  the  morning. 
— Poussin  succeeded  better  in  his  classic  than  in  his  sacred  sub- 
jects. The  latter,  are  comparatively  heavy,  forced,  full  of  vio- 
lent contrasts  of  colour,  of  red,  blue,  and  black,  and  without  the 
true  prophetic  inspiration  of  the  characters.  But  in  his  Pagan 
allegories  and  fables  he  was  quite  at  home.  The  native  gravity 
and  native  levity  of  the  Frenchman  were  combined  with  Italian 
scenery  and  an  antique  gusto,  and  gave  even  to  his  colouring  an 
air  of  learned  indifference.  He  wants,  in  one  respect,  grace, 
form,  expression  ;  but  he  has  everywhere  sense  and  meaning, 
perfect  costume  and  propriety.  His  personages  always  belong 
to  the  class  and  time  represented,  and  are  strictly  versed  in  the 
business  in  hand.  His  grotesque  compositions  in  particular,  his 
Nymphs  and  Fauns,  are  superior  (at  least,  as  far  as  style  is  con- 
cerned) even  to  those  of  Rubens.  They  are  taken  more  imme- 
diately out  of  fabulous  history.  Rubens's  Satyrs  and  Bacchantes 
have  a  more  jovial  and  voluptuous  aspect,  are  more  drunk  with 
pleasure,  more  full  of  animal  spirits  and  riotous  impulses  ;  thev 
laugh  and  bound  along — 

"  Leaping  like  wanton  kids  in  pleasant  spring :" 

but  those  of  Poussin  have  more  of  the  intellectual  part  of  the 
cnaracter,  and  seem  vicious  on  reflection,  and  of  set  purpose. 
Rubens's  are  noble  specimens  of  a  class ;  Poussin's  are  allegori- 
cal abstractions  of  the  same  class,  with  bodies  less  pampered,  but 
with  minds  more  secretly  depraved.     The  Bacchanalian  groups 


ON  A  LANDSCAPE  OF  NICOLAS  POUSSIN.  71 

of  the  Flemish  painter  were,  however,  his  master-pieces  in  com- 
position. Witness  those  prodigies  of  colour,  character,  and  ex- 
pression at  Blenheim.  In  the  more  chaste  and  refined  delineation 
of  classic  fable,  Poussin  was  without  a  rival.  Rubens,  who  was 
a  match  for  him  in  the  wild  and  picturesque,  could  not  pretend 
to  vie  with  the  elegance  and  purity  of  thought  in  his  picture  of 
Apollo  giving  a  poet  a  cup  of  water  to  drink,  nor  with  the  grace- 
fulness of  design  in  the  figure  of  a  Nymph  squeezing  the  juice  of 
a  bunch  of  grapes  from  her  fingers  (a  rosy  wine-press)  which 
falls  into  the  mouth  of  a  chubby  infant  below.  But,  above  all, 
who  shall  celebrate,  in  terms  of  fit  praise,  his  picture  of  the  shep- 
herds in  the  vale  of  Tempe  going  out  in  a  fine  morning  of  the 
spring,  and  coming  to  a  tomb  with  this  inscription : — Et  ego  in 
Arcadia  vixi  !  The  eager  curiosity  of  some,  the  expression  of 
others  who  start  back  with  fear  and  surprise,  the  clear  breeze 
playing  with  the  branches  of  the  shadowing  trees,  "  the  valleys 
low,  where  the  mild  zephyrs  use,"  the  distant,  uninterrupted, 
sunny  prospects  speak  (and  forever  will  speak  on)  of  ages  past 
to  ages  yet  to  come  !* 

Pictures  are  a  set  of  chosen  images,  a  succession  of  pleasant 
thoughts  passing  through  the  mind.  It  is  a  luxury  to  have  the 
walls  of  our  rooms  hung  round  with  them  ;  and  no  less  so  to  have 
such  a  gallery  in  the  mind,  to  con  over  the  relics  of  ancient  art 
bound  up  "  within  the  book  and  volume  of  the  brain,  unmixed  (if 
it  were  possible)  with  baser  matter !"  A  life  spent  among  pic- 
tures, in  the  study  and  the  love  of  art,  is  a  happy  noiseless  dream  : 
or  rather,  it  is  to  dream  and  to  be  awake  at  the  same  time ;  for  it 
has  all  "  the  sober  certainty  of  waking  bliss,"  with  the  romantic 
voluptuousness  of  a  visionary  and  abstracted  being.  They  are 
the  bright  consummate  essences  of  things,  and  we  may  say  that  he 

"  Who  of  these  delights  can  judge  and  knows 
To  interpose  them  oft,  is  not  unwise." 

The  Orion,  which  I  have  here  taken  occasion  to  descant  upon, 
is  one  of  a  collection  of  excellent  pictures,  as  this  collection  is 

•  Poussin  nas  repeated  this  subject  more  than  once,  and  appears  to  have 
revelled  in  its  witcheries.     I  have  before  alluded  to  it. 


T3  TABLE  TALK. 


itself  one  of  a  series  from  the  Old  Masters,  which  have  for  some 
years  past  embrowned  the  walls  of  the  British  Gallery,  and  en- 
riched the  public  eye.  What  hues  (those  of  nature  mellowed  by 
time)  breathe  around,  as  we  enter !  What  forms  are  there,  woven 
into  the  memory !  What  looks,  which  only  the  answering  looks 
of  the  spectator  can  express !  What  intellectual  stores  have  been 
yearly  poured  forth  from  the  shrine  of  ancient  art !  The  works 
are  various,  but  the  names  the  same — heaps  of  Rembrandts 
frowning  from  the  darkened  walls,  Rubens's  glad  gorgeous 
groups,  Titian's  more  rich  and  rare,  Claude's  always  exquisite, 
sometimes  beyond  compare,  Guido's  endless  cloying  sweetness, 
the  learning  of  Poussin  and  the  Caracci,  and  Raphael's  princely 
magnificence,  crowning  all.  We  read  certain  letters  and  syl- 
lables in  the  Catalogue,  and  at  the  well-known  magic  sound,  a 
miracle  of  skill  and  beauty  starts  to  view.  It  might  be  thought 
that  one  year's  prodigal  display  of  such  perfection  would  exhaust 
the  labours  of  one  man's  life ;  but  the  next  year,  and  the  next  to 
that,  we  find  another  harvest  reaped  and  gathered  in  to  the  great 
garner  of  art,  by  the  same  immortal  hands — 

"  Old  Genius  the  porter  of  them  was ; 
He  letteth  in,  he  letteth  out  to  wend." 

Their  works  seem  endless  as  their  reputation — to  be  many,  as 
they  are  complete — to  multiply  with  the  desire  of  the  mind  to  see 
more  and  more  of  them ;  as  if  there  were  a  living  power  in  the 
breath  of  fame,  and  in  the  very  names  of  the  great  heirs  of  glory 
"  there  were  propagation  too !"  It  is  something  to  have  a  collec- 
tion of  this  sort  to  count  upon  once  a  year ;  to  have  one  last, 
lingering  look  yet  to  come.  Pictures  are  scattered  "  like  stray- 
gifts  through  the  world ;"  and  while  they  remain,  earth  has  yet 
a  little  gilding  left,  not  quite  rubbed  off,  dishonoured,  and  de- 
faced. There  are  plenty  of  standard  works  still  to  be  found  in 
this  country,  in  the  collections  at  Blenheim,  at  Burleigh,  and  in 
those  belonging  to  Mr.  Angerstein,  Lord  Grosvenor,  the  Marquis 
of  Stafford,  and  others,  to  keep  up  this  treat  to  the  lovers  of  art 
foi  many  years :  and  it  is  the  more  desirable  to  reserve  a  privi- 
leged sanctuary  of  this  sort,  where  the  eye  mav  dote,  and  the 


ON  A  LANDSCAPE  OF  NICOLAS  POUSSIN.  12 

heart  take  its  fill  of  such  pictures  as  Poussin's  Orion,  since  the 
Louvre  is  stripped  of  its  triumphant  spoils,  and  since  he  whr 
collected  it,  and  wore  it  as  a  rich  jewel  in  his  Iron  Crown,  the 
hunter  of  greatness  and  glory,  is  himself  a  shade  1 

4« 


74  TABLE  TALK. 


ESSAT  YIII. 

On  Going  a  Journey. 

One  of  the  pleasantest  things  in  the  world  is  going  a  journey  , 
but  1  like  to  go  by  myself.  I  can  enjoy  society  in  a  room ;  but 
out  of  doors,  nature  is  company  enough  for  me.  I  arc  ih^n  never 
less  alone  than  when  alone. 

"  The  fields  his  study,  nature  was  his  book." 

I  cannot  see  the  wit  of  walking  and  talking  at  the  same  time. 
When  I  am  in  the  country,  I  wish  to  vegetate  like  the  country. 
I  am  not  for  criticising  hedge-rows  and  black  cattle.  I  go  out 
of  town  in  order  to  forget  the  town  and  all  that  is  in  it.  There 
are  those  who  for  this  purpose  go  to  watering-places,  and  carry 
the  metropolis  with  them.  I  like  more  elbow-room,  and  fewer 
incumbrances.  I  like  solitude,  when  I  give  myself  up  to  it,  for 
the  sake  of  solitude ;  nor  do  I  ask  for 

"  a  friend  in  my  retreat, 

Whom  I  may  whisper  solitude  is  sweet." 

The  soul  of  a  journey  is  liberty ;  perfect  liberty,  to  think,  feel, 
do,  just  as  one  pleases.  We  go  a  journey  chiefly  to  be  free  of  all 
impediments  and  of  all  inconveniences ;  to  leave  ourselves  be- 
hind, much  more  to  get  rid  of  others.  It  is  because  I  want  a 
little  breathing-space  to  muse  on  indifferent  matters,  where  Con- 
templation 

"  May  plume  her  feathers  and  let  grow  her  wings, 

Thai  in  the  various  bustle  of  resort 

Were  all  too  ruffled,  and  sometimes  impair'd," 

that  1  absent  myself  from  the  town  for  a  while,  without  feeling  at 


ON  GOING  A  JOURNEY.  15 

a  loss  the  moment  I  am  left  by  myself.  Instead  of  a  friend  in  a 
post-chaise  or  in  a  tilbury,  to  exchange  good  things  with,  and  vary 
the  same  stale  topics  over  again,  for  once  let  me  have  a  truce  with 
impertinence.  Give  me  the  clear  blue  sky  over  my  head,  and 
the  green  turf  beneath  my  feet,  a  winding  road  before  me,  and  a 
three  hours'  march  to  dinner — and  then  to  thinking !  It  is  hard 
if  I  cannot  start  some  game  on  these  lone  heaths.  I  laugh5  I  run, 
I  leap,  I  sing  for  joy.  From  the  point  of  yonder  rolling  cloud,  I 
plunge  into  my  past  being,  and  revel  there,  as  the  sun-burnt  In- 
dian plunges  headlong  into  the  wave  that  wafts  him  to  his  native 
shore.  Then  long-forgotten  things,  like  "sunken  wrack  and 
sumless  treasuries,"  burst  upon  my  eager  sight,  and  I  begin  to 
feel,  think,  and  be  myself  again.  Instead  of  an  awkward  silence, 
broken  by  attempts  at  wit  or  dull  common-places,  mine  is  that 
undisturbed  silence  of  the  heart  which  alone  is  perfect  eloquence. 
No  one  likes  puns,  alliterations,  antitheses,  argument,  and  analy- 
sis, better  than  I  do  ;  but  I  sometimes  had  rather  be  without  them. 
"  Leave,  oh,  leave  me  to  my  repose  !"  I  have  just  now  other 
business  in  hand,  which  would  seem  idle  to  you,  but  is  with  me 
"the  very  stuff  of  the  conscience."  Is  not  this  wild  rose  sweet 
without  a  comment  ?  Does  not  this  daisy  leap  to  my  heart,  set 
in  its  coat  of  emerald  ?  Yet  if  I  were  to  explain  to  you  the  cir- 
cumstance that  has  so  endeared  it  to  me,  you  would  only  smile. 
Had  I  not  better  then  keep  it  to  myself,  and  let  it  serve  me  to 
brood  over,  from  here  to  yonder  craggy  point,  and  from  thence 
onward  to  the  far-distant  horizon  ?  I  should  be  but  bad  company 
all  that  way,  and  therefore  prefer  being  alone.  I  have  heard  it 
said  that  you  may,  when  the  moody  fit  comes  on,  walk  or  ride  on 
by  yourself,  and  indulge  your  reveries.  But  this  looks  like  a 
breach  of  manners,  a  neglect  of  others,  and  you  are  thinking  all 
the  time  that  you  ought  to  rejoin  your  party.  "  Out  upon  such 
half-faced  fellowship,"  say  I.  I  like  to  be  either  entirely  to  my- 
self, or  entirely  at  the  disposal  of  others ;  to  talk  or  be  silent,  to 
walk  or  sit  still,  to  be  sociable  or  solitary.  I  was  pleased  with 
an  observation  of  Mr.  Cobbett's,  that  "  he  thought  it  a  bad  French 
custom  to  drink  our  wine  with  our  meals,  and  that  an  English- 
man ought  to  do  only  one  thing  at  a  time."  So  I  cannot  talk 
and  think,  or  indulge  in  melancholy  musing  and  lively  conversa- 


TABLE  TALK. 


tion  by  fits  and  starts.  "  Let  me  have  a  companion  of  my  way," 
says  Sterne,  "  were  it  but  to  remark  how  the  shadows  lengthen 
as  the  sun  goes  down."  It  is  beautifully  said  :  but  in  my  opinion, 
this  continually  comparing  of  notes  interferes  with  the  involun- 
tary impression  of  things  upon  the  mind,  and  hurts  the  sentiment. 
Tf  you  only  hint  what  you  feel  in  a  kind  of  dumb  show,  it  is  in- 
sipid :  if  you  have  to.  explain  it,  it  is  making  a  toil  of  pleasure. 
You  cannot  read  the  book  of  nature,  without  being  perpetually 
put  to  the  trouble  of  translating  it  for  the  benefit  of  others.  I  am 
for  the  synthetical  method  on  a  journey,  in  preference  to  the  ana- 
lytical. I  am  content  to  lay  in  a  stock  of  ideas  then,  and  to  ex- 
amine and  anatomize  them  afterwards.  I  want  to  see  my  vague 
notions  float  like  the  down  of  the  thistle  before  the  breeze,  and 
not  to  have  them  entangled  in  the  briars  and  thorns  of  contro- 
versy. For  once,  I  like  to  have  it  all  my  own  way ;  and  this  is 
impossible,  unless  you  are  alone,  or  in  such  company  as  I  do  not 
covet.  I  have  no  objection  to  argue  a  point  with  any  one  for 
twenty  miles  of  measured  road,  but  not  for  pleasure.  If  you  re- 
mark the  scent  of  a  bean-field  in  crossing  the  road,  perhaps  your 
fellow-traveller  has  no  smell.  If  you  point  to  a  distant  object, 
perhaps  he  is  short-sighted,  and  has  to  take  out  his  glass  to  look 
at  it.  There  is  a  feeling  in  the  air,  a  tone  in  the  colour  of  a 
cloud,  which  hits  your  fancy,  but  the  effect  of  which  you  are  un- 
prepared to  account  for.  There  is  then  no  sympathy,  but  an 
uneasy  craving  after  it,  and  a  dissatisfaction  which  pursues  you 
on  the  way,  and  in  the  end  probably  produces  ill  humour.  Now 
I  never  quarrel  with  myself,  and  take  all  my  own  conclusions  for 
granted  till  I  find  it  necessary  to  defend  them  against  objections. 
It  is  not  merely  that  you  may  not  be  of  accord  on  the  objects  and 
circumstances  that  present  themselves  before  you — they  may  re- 
call a  number  of  ideas,  and  lead  to  associations  too  delicate  and 
refined  to  be  possibly  communicated  to  others.  Yet  these  I  love 
to  cherish,  and  sometimes  still  fondly  clutch  them,  when  I  can 
escape  from  the  throng  to  do  so.  To  give  way  to  our-  feelings 
before  company,  seems  extravagance  or  affectation  ;  on  the  other 
hand,  to  have  to  unravel  this  mystery  of  our  being  at  every  turn, 
and  to  make  others  take  an  equal  interest  in  it  (otherwise  the  end 
is  not  answered),  is  a  task  to  which  few  are  competent.    We  must 


ON  GOING  A  JOURNEY.  H 

"give  it  an  understanding,  but  no  tongue."  My  old  friend  Cole- 
ridge, however,  could  do  both.  He  could  go  on  in  the  most  de- 
lightful explanatory  way  over  hill  and  dale,  a  summer's  day,  and 
convert  a  landscape  into  a  didactic  poem  or  a  Pindaric  ode. 
"  He  talked  far  above  singing."  If  I  could  so  clothe  my  ideas  in 
sounding  and  flowing  words,  I  might  perhaps  wish  to  have  some 
one  with  me  to  admire  the  swelling  theme ;  or  I  could  be  more 
content,  were  it  possible  for  me  still  to  hear  his  echoing  voice  in 
the  woods  of  All-Foxden.  They  had  "  that  fine  madness  in  them 
which  our  first  poets  had ;  and  if  they  could  have  been  caught 
by  some  rare  instrument,  would  have  breathed  such  strains  as 
the  following : 

"  Here  be  woods  as  green 

As  any,  air  likewise  as  fresh  and  sweet 
As  when  smooth  Zephyrus  plays  on  the  fleet 
Face  of  the  curled  stream,  with  flow'rs  as  many 
As  the  young  spring  gives,  and  as  choice  as  any  ; 
Here  be  all  new  delights,  cool  streams,  and  wells, 
Arbours  o'ergrown  with  woodbine,  caves  and  dells; 
Choose  where  thou  wilt,  while  I  sit  by  and  sing 
Or  gather  rushes  to  make  many  a  ring 
For  thy  long  fingers ;  tell  thee  tales  of  love, 
How  the  pale  Phccbe,  hunting  in  a  grove, 
First  saw  the  boy  Endymion,  from  whose  eyes 
She  took  eternal  fire  that  never  dies ; 
How  she  convey'd  him  softly  in  a  sleep, 
His  temples  bound  with  poppy,  to  the  steep 
Head  of  old  Latmos,  where  she  stoops  each  night, 
Gilding  the  mountain  with  her  brother's  light, 

To  kiss  her  sweetest" 

Faithful  Shepherdess. 

Had  I  words  and  images  at  command  like  these,  I  would  at- 
tempt to  wake  the  thoughts  that  lie  slumbering  on  golden  ridges 
in  the  evening  clouds  :  but  at  the  sight  of  nature  my  fancy,  poor 
as  it  is,  droops  and  closes  up  its  leaves,  like  flowers  at  sunset. 
I  can  make  nothing  out  on  the  spot : — 1  must  have  time  to  collect 
myself. 

In  general,    a   good    thing   spoils   out-of-door   prospects :    it 

should  be  reserved  for  Table-talk.     L is  for  this  reason,  I 

take  it,  the  worst  company  in  the  world  out  of  doors  ;  because  he 


78  TABLE  TALK. 


is  the  best  within.  I  grant,  there  is  one  subject  on  which  it  is 
pleasant  to  talk  on  a  journey :  and  that  is,  what  one  shall  have 
for  supper  when  we  get  to  our  inn  at  night.  The  open  air  im- 
proves this  sort  of  conversation  or  friendly  altercation,  by  setting 
a  keener  edge  on  appetite.  Every  mile  of  the  road  heightens  the 
flavour  of  the  viands  we  expect  at  the  end  of  it.  How  fine  it  is 
tc  enter  some  old  town,  walled  and  turreted,  just  at  the  approach 
of  night-fall,  or  to  come  to  some  straggling  village,  with  the  lights 
streaming  through  the  surrounding  gloom  ;  and  then  after  in- 
quiring for  the  best  entertainment  that  the  place  affords,  to  "  take 
one's  ease  at  one's  inn  !"  These  eventful  moments  in  our  lives 
are  in  fact  too  precious,  too  full  of  solid,  heart- felt  happiness  to 
be  frittered  and  dribbled  away  in  imperfect  sympathy.  I  would 
have  them  all  to  myself,  and  drain  them  to  the  last  drop  :  they 
will  do  to  talk  of  or  to  write  about  afterwards.  What  a  delicate 
speculation  it  is,  after  drinking  whole  goblets  of  tea, 

"  The  cups  that  cheer,  but  not  inebriate," 

and  letting  the  fumes  ascend  into  the  brain,  to  sit  considering 
what  we  shall  have  for  supper — eggs  and  a  rasher,  a  rabbit 
smothered  in  onions,  or  an  excellent  veal-cutlet !  Sancho  in 
such  a  situation  once  fixed  upon  cow-heel ;  and  his  choice,  though 
he  could  not  help  it,  is  not  to  be  disparaged.  Then,  in  the  in- 
tervals of  pictured  scenery  and  Shandean  contemplation,  to  catch 
the  preparation  and  the  stir  in  the  kitchen — Procul,  O  procul  este 
prof  anil  These  hours  are  sacred  to  silence  and  to  musing,  to  be 
treasured  up  in  the  memory,  and  to  feed  the  source  of  smiling 
thoughts  hereafter.  I  would  not  waste  them  in  idle  talk  ;  or  if  I 
must  have  the  integrity  of  fancy  broken  in  upon,  I  would  rather 
it  were  by  a  stranger  than  a  friend.  A  stranger  takes  his  hue 
and  character  from  the  time  and  place  ;  he  is  a  part  of  the  fur- 
niture and  costume  of  an  inn.  If  he  is  a  Quaker,  or  from  the 
West  Riding  of  Yorkshire,  so  much  the  better.  I  do  not  even 
try  to  sympathize  with  him,  and  he  breaks  no  squares.  I  associ- 
ate nothing  with  my  travelling  companion  but  present  objects  and 
passing  events.  In  his  ignorance  of  me  and  my  affairs,  I  in  a 
manner  forget  myself.  But  a  friend  reminds  one  of  other  things, 
rips  up  old  grievances,  and  destroys  the  abstraction  of  the  scene. 


ON  GOING  A  JOURNEY. 


He  comes  in  ungraciously  between  us  and  our  imaginary 
character.  Something  is  dropped  in  the  course  of  conversation 
that  gives  a  hint  of  your  profession  and  pursuits  ;  or  from  having 
some  one  with  you  that  knows  the  less  sublime  portions  of  your 
history,  it  seems  that  other  people  do.  You  are  no  longer  a 
citizen  of  the  world  :  but  your  "  unhoused  free  condition  is  put 
into  circumscription  and  confine."  The  incognito  of  an  inn  is 
one  of  its  striking  privileges — "  lord  of  one's-self,  uncumber'd 
with  a  name."  Oh  !  it  is  great  to  shake  off  the  trammels  of  the 
world  and  of  public  opinion — to  lose  our  importunate,  tormenting, 
everlasting  personal  identity  in  the  elements  of  nature,  and  become 
the  creature  of  the  moment,  clear  of  all  ties — to  hold  to  the 
universe  only  by  a  dish  of  sweet-breads,  and  to  owe  nothing  but 
the  score  of  the  evening — and  no  longer  seeking  for  applause  and 
meeting  with  contempt,  to  be  known  by  no  other  title  than  the 
Gentleman  in  the  parlour !  One  may  take  one's  choice  of  all 
characters  in  this  romantic  state  of  uncertainty  as  to  one's  real 
pretensions,  and  become  indefinitely  respectable  and  negatively 
right- worshipful.  We  baffle  prejudice  and  disappoint  conjecture ; 
and  from  being  so  to  others,  begin  to  be  objects  of  curiosity  and 
wonder  even  to  ourselves.  We  are  no  more  those  hackneyed 
common-places  that  we  appear  in  the  world :  an  inn  restores  us 
to  the  level  of  nature,  and  quits  scores  with  society !  I  have 
certainly  spent  some  enviable  hours  at  inns — sometimes  when  I 
nave  been  left  entirely  to  myself,  and  have  tried  to  solve  some 
metaphysical  problem,  as  once  at  Witham-Common,  where  I  found 
out  the  proof  that  likeness  is  not  a  case  of  the  association  of  ideas 
— at  other  times,  when  there  have  been  pictures  in  the  room, 
as  at  St.  Neot's  (I  think  it  was,)  where  I  first  met  with  Gribelin's 
engravings  of  the  Cartoons,  into  which  I  entered  at  once  ;  and  at. 
a  little  inn  on  the  borders  of  Wales,  where  there  happened  to  be 
nanging  some  of  Westall's  drawings,  which  I  compared  triumph- 
antly (for  a  theory  that  I  had,  not  for  the  admired  artist)  with  the 
figure  of  a  girl  who  had  ferried  me  over  the  Severn,  standing  up 
;'n  the  boat  between  me  and  the  fading  twilight — at  other  times  I 
might  mention  luxuriating  in  books  with  a  peculiar  interest  in 
this  way,  as  I  remember  sitting  up  half  the  night  to  read  Paul 
and  Virginia,  which  I  picked  up  at  an  inn  at  Bridgewater,  after 


80  TABLE  TALK. 


being  drenched  in  the  rain  all  day ;  and  at  the  same  place  I  got 
through  two  volumes  of  Madame  D'Arblay's  Camilla.  It  was 
»n  the  tenth  of  April,  1798,  that  I  sat  down  to  a  volume  of  the 
New  Eloise,  at  the  inn  at  Llangollen,  over  a  bottle  of  sherry  and 
a  cold  chicken.  The  letter  I  chose  was  St.  Preux's  description 
of  his  feelings  as  he  first  caught  a  glimpse  from  the  heights  of  the 
Jura  of  the  Pays  de  Vaud,  which  I  had  brought  with  me  as  a 
bonne  louche  to  crown  the  evening  with.  It  was  my  birth-day 
and  I  had  for  the  first  time  come  from  a  place  in  the  neighbour- 
hood to  visit  this  delightful  spot.  The  road  to  Llangollen  turns 
off  between  Chirk  and  Wrexham ;  and  on  passing  a  certain 
point,  you  come  all  at  once  upon  the  valley,  which  opens  like  an 
amphitheatre,  broad,  barren  hills  rising  in  majestic  state  on  either 
side,  with  "  green  upland  swells  that  echo  to  the  bleat  of  flocks" 
below,  and  the  river  Dee  babbling  over  its  stony  bed  in  the  midst 
of  them.  The  valley  at  this  time  "  glittered  green  with  sunny 
showers,"  and  a  budding  ash-tree  dipped  its  tender  branches  in 
the  chiding  stream.  How  proud,  how  glad  I  was  to  walk  along 
the  high  road  that  commanded  the  delicious  prospect,  repeating 
the  lines  which  I  have  just  quoted  from  Mr.  Coleridge's  poems ! 
But  besides  the  prospect  which  opened  beneath  my  feet,  another 
also  opened  to  my  inward  sight,  a  heavenly  vision,  on  which 
were  written,  in  letters  large  as  Hope  could  make  them,  these 
four  words,  Liberty,  Genius,  Love,  Virtue  ;  which  have  since 
faded  into  the  light  of  common  day,  or  mock  my  idle  gaze. 

"  The  beautiful  is  vanished,  and  returns  not." 

Still  I  would  return  some  time  or  other  to  this  enchanted  spot ; 
but  I  would  return  to  it  alone.  What  other  self  could  I  find  to 
share  that  influx  of  thoughts,  of  regret,  and  delight,  the  traces 
of  which  I  could  hardly  conjure  up  to  myself,  so  much  have  they 
been  broken  and  defaced  !  I  could  stand  on  some  tall  rock,  and 
overlook  the  precipice  of  years  that  separates  me  from  what  I 
then  was.  I  was  at  that  time  going  shortly  to  visit  the  poet 
whom  I  have  above  named.  Where  is  he  now  ?  Not  only  I 
myself  have  changed — the  world,  which  was  then  new  to  me, 
has  become  old  and  incorrigible.  Yet  will  I  turn  to  thee  in 
thought,  O  sylvan  Dee,  as  then  thou  wert  in  joy,  in  youth  and 


ON  GOING  A  JOURNEY.  81 

gladness ;  and  thou  shalt  always  be  to  me  the  river  of  Paradise, 
where  I  will  drink  of  the  waters  of  life  freely  ! 

There  is  hardly  any  thing  that  shows  the  short-sightedness  «.r 
capriciousness  of  the  imagination  more  than  travelling  does. 
With  change  of  place  we  change  our  ideas,  nay,  our  opinions 
and  feelings.  We  can  by  an  effort  indeed  transport  ourselves  to 
old  and  long-forgotten  scenes,  and  then  the  picture  of  the  mind 
revives  again  ;  but  we  forget  those  that  we  have  just  left.  It 
seems  that  we  can  think  but  of  one  place  at  a  time.  The  canvas 
of  the  fancy  has  only  a  certain  extent,  and  if  we  paint  one  set 
of  objects  upon  it,  they  immediately  efface  every  other.  We 
cannot  enlarge  our  conceptions  ;  we  only  shift  our  point  of  view. 
The  landscape  bares  its  bosom  to  the  enraptured  eye  ;  we  take 
our  fill  of  it ;  and  seem  as  if  we  could  form  no  other  image  of 
beauty  or  grandeur.  We  pass  on,  and  think  no  more  of  it :  the 
horizon  that  shuts  it  from  our  sight  also  blots  it  from  our  me- 
mory, like  a  dream.  In  travelling  through  a  wild  barren  coun- 
try, I  can  form  no  idea  of  a  woody  and  cultivated  one.  It  ap- 
pears to  me  that  all  the  world  must  be  barren,  like  what  I  see  of 
it.  In  the  country  we  forget  the  town,  and  in  town  we  despise  the 
country-.  "  Beyond  Hyde  Park,"  says  Sir  Fopling  Flutter,  "  all 
is  a  desert."  All  that  part  of  the  map  that  we  do  not  see  before 
us  is  a  blank.  The  world  in  our  conceit  of  it  is  not  much  big- 
ger than  a  nutshell.  It  is  not  one  prospect  expanded  into  another, 
county  joined  to  county,  kingdom  to  kingdom,  lands  to  seas,  mak- 
ing an  image  voluminous  and  vast ; — the  mind  can  form  no 
larger  idea  of  space  than  the  eye  can  take  in  at  a  single  glance. 
The  rest  is  a  name  written  on  a  map,  a  calculation  of  arithme- 
tic. For  instance,  what  is  the  true  signification  of  that  immense 
mass  of  territory  and  population,  known  by  the  name  of  China 
to  us  1  An  inch  of  paste-board  on  a  wooden  globe,  of  no  more 
account  than  a  China  orange  !  Things  near  us  are  seen  of  the 
size  of  life  :  things  at  a  distance  are  diminished  to  the  size  of 
the  understanding.  We  measure  the  universe  by  ourselves,  and 
even  comprehend  the  texture  of  our  own  being  only  piece-meai. 
In  this  way,  however,  we  remember  an  infinity  of  things  and 
places.  The  mind  is  like  a  mechanical  instrument  that  plays  a 
great  variety  of  tunes,  but  it  must  play  them  in  succession.  One 
6 


89  TABLE  TALK. 


idea  recalls  another,  but  it  at  the  same  time  excludes  all  others. 
In  trying  to  renew  old  recollections,  we  cannot  as  it  were  unfold 
the  whole  web  of  our  existence ;  we  must  pick  out  the  single 
threads.  So  in  coming  to  a  place  where  we  have  formerly  lived 
and  with  which  we  have  intimate  associations,  every  one  must 
have  found  that  the  feeling  grows  more  vivid  the  nearer  we  ap- 
proach the  spot,  from  the  mere  anticipation  of  the  actual  impres- 
sion :  we  remember  circumstances,  feelings,  persons,  faces, 
names,  that  we  had  not  thought  of  for  years ;  but  for  the  time 
all  the  rest  of  the  world  is  forgotten ! — To  return  to  the  question 
I  have  quitted  above. 

I  have  no  objection  to  go  to  see  ruins,  aqueducts,  pictures,  in 
company  with  a  friend  or  a  party,  but  rather  the  contrary,  for 
the  former  reason  reversed.  They  are  intelligible  matters,  and 
will  bear  talking  about.  The  sentiment  here  is  not  tacit,  but 
communicable  and  overt.  Salisbury  Plain  is  barren  of  criticism  ; 
but  Stonehenge  will  bear  a  discussion  antiquarian,  picturesque, 
and  philosophical.  In  setting  out  on  a  party  of  pleasure,  the 
first  consideration  always  is  where  we  shall  go  :  in  taking  a  so- 
litary ramble,  the  question  is  what  we  shall  meet  with  by  the 
way.  The  mind  then  is  "  its  own  place  ;"  nor  are  we  anxious 
to  arrive  at  the  end  of  our  journey.  I  can  myself  do  the  hon- 
ours indifferently  well  to  works  of  art  and  curiosity.  I  once 
took  a  party  to  Oxford  with  no  mean  iclat — showed  them  that 
seat  of  the  Muses  at  a  distance, 

"  With  glittering  spires  and  pinnacles  adorn'd" — 

descanted  on  the  learned  air  that  breathes  from  the  grassy  quad- 
rangle and  stone-walls  of  halls  and  colleges — was  at  home  in  the 
Bodleian  ;  and  at  Blenheim  quite  superseded  the  powdered  Cice- 
roni that  attended  us,  and  that  pointed  in  vain  with  his  wand  to 
common-place  beauties  in  matchless  pictures. — As  another  ex- 
ception to  the  above  reasoning,  I  should  not  feel  confident  in 
venturing  on  a  journey  in  a  foreign  country  without  a  com- 
panion. I  should  want  at  intervals  to  hear  the  sound  of  my  own 
language.  There  is  an  involuntary  antipathy  in  the  mind  of  an 
Englishman  to  foreign  manners  and  notions,  that  requires  the 
assistance  of  social  sympathy  to  carry  it  off.     As  the  distance 


ON  GOING  A  JOURNEY.  83 

from  home  increases,  this  relief,  which  was  at  first  a  luxury, 
becomes  a  passion  and  an  appetite.  A  person  would  almost  feel 
stifled  to  find  himself  in  the  deserts  of  Arabia  without  friends  and 
countrymen :  there  must  be  allowed  to  be  something  in  the  view 
of  Athens  or  old  Rome,  that  claims  the  utterance  of  speech  ;  and 
I  own  that  the  Pyramids  are  too  mighty  for  any  single  contem- 
plation. In  such  situations,  so  opposite  to  all  one's  ordinary 
train  of  ideas,  one  seems  a  species  by  one's-self,  a  limb  torn  off 
from  society,  unless  one  can  mpet  with  instant  fellowship  and 
support. — Yet  I  did  not  feel  thfs  want  or  craving  very  pressing 
once,  when  I  first  set  rny  foot  on  the  laughing  shores  of  France. 
Calais  was  peopled  with  novelty  and  delight.  The  confused, 
busy  murmur  of  the  place  was  like  oil  and  wine  poured  into  my 
ears ;  nor  did  the  mariners'  hymn,  which  was  sung  from  the  top 
of  an  old  crazy  vessel  in  the  harbour  as  the  sun  went  down,  send 
an  alien  sound  into  my  soul.  I  breathed  the  air  of  general  hu- 
manity. I  walked  over  "  the  vine-covered  hills  and  gay  regions 
of  France,"  erect  and  satisfied ;  for  the  image  of  man  was  not 
cast  down  and  chained  to  the  foot  of  arbitrary  thrones.  I  was  at 
no  loss  for  language,  for  that  of  all  the  great  schools  of  painting 
was  open  to  me.  The  whole  is  vanished  like  a  shade.  Pictures, 
heroes,  glory,  freedom,  all  are  fled  :  nothing  remains  but  the 
Bourbons  and  the  French  people ! — There  is  undoubtedly  a  sen- 
sation in  travelling  into  foreign  parts  that  is  to  be  had  nowhere 
else :  but  it  is  more  pleasing  at  the  time  than  lasting.  It  is  too 
remote  from  our  habitual  associations  to  be  a  common  topic  of 
discourse  or  reference  ;  and,  like  a  dream  or  another  state  of  ex- 
istence, does  not  piece  into  our  daily  modes  of  life.  It  is  an  ani- 
mated but  a  momentary  hallucination.  It  demands  an  effort  to 
exchange  our  actual  for  our  ideal  identity ;  and  to  feel  the  pulse 
of  our  old  transports  revive  very  keenly,  we  must  "  jump"  all  our 
present  comforts  and  connections.  Our  romantic  and  itineran 
character  is  not  to  be  domesticated.  Dr.  Johnson  remarked  how 
little  foreign  travel  added  to  the  facilities  of  conversation  in  those 
who  had  been  abroad.  In  fact,  the  time  we  have  spent  there  is 
both  delightful  and  in  one  sense  instructive ;  but  it  appears  to  be 
cut  out  of  our  substantial,  downright  existence,  and  never  to  join 
kindly  on  to  it.     We  are  not  the  same,  but  another,  and  perhaps 


84  TABLE  TALK. 


more  enviable  individual,  all  the  time  we  are  out  of  our  own 
country.  We  are  lost  to  ourselves,  as  well  as  to  our  friends. 
So  the  poet  somewhat  quaintly  sings, 

"  Out  of  my  country  and  myself  I  go." 

Those  who  wish  to  forget  painful  thoughts,  do  well  to  absent 
themselves  for  a  while  from  the  ties  and  objects  that  recall  them : 
but  we  can  be  said  only  to  fulfil  our  destiny  in  the  place  that  gave 
us  birth.  I  should  on  this  account  like  well  enough  to  spend  the 
whole  of  my  life  in  travelling  abroad,  if  I  could  anywhere  bor 
sow  another  life  to  spend  afterwards  at  home. 


WHY  DISTANT  OBJECTS  PLEASE.  85 


ESSAY  IX. 

Why  Distant  Objects  Please. 

Distant  objects  please,  because,  in  the  first  place,  they  imply  au 
idea  of  space  and  magnitude,  and  because,  not  being  obtruded 
too  close  upon  the  eye,  we  clothe  them  with  the  indistinct  and 
airy  colours  of  fancy.  In  looking  at  the  misty  mountain-tops 
that  bound  the  horizon,  the  mind  is,  as  it  were,  conscious  of  all 
vhe  conceivable  objects  and  interests  that  lie  between ;  we  ima- 
gine all  sorts  of  adventures  in  the  interim  ;  strain  our  hopes  and 
wishes  to  reach  the.air-drawn  circle,  or  to  "  descry  new  lands, 
rivers,  and  mountains,"  stretching  far  beyond  it :  our  feelings 
carried  out  of  themselves  lose  their  grossness  and  their  husk,  are 
rarefied,  expanded,  melt  into  softness  and  brighten  into  beauty, 
turning  to  "  ethereal  mould,  sky-tinctured."  We  drink  the  air 
before  us,  and  borrow  a  more  refined  existence  from  objects  that 
hover  on  the  brink  of  nothing.  Where  the  landscape  fades  from 
the  dull  sight,  we  fill  the  thin,  viewless  space  with  shapes  of  un- 
known good,  and  tinge  the  hazy  prospect  with  hopes  and  wishes 
and  more  charming  fears. 

"  But  thou,  oh  Hope !  with  eyes  so  fair, 

What  was  thy  delighted  measure  1 

Still  it  whisper'd  promised  pleasure, 

And  bade  the  lovely  scenes  at  distance  hail !" 

Whatever  is  placed  beyond  the  reach  of  sense  and  knowledge, 
whatever  is  imperfectly  discerned,  the  fancy  pieces  out  at  its 
leisure ;  and  all  but  the  present  moment,  but  the  present  spot, 
passion  claims  for  its  own,  and,  brooding  over  it  with  wings  out- 
spread, stamps  it  with  an  image  of  itself.  Passion  is  lord  of  in 
finite  space,  and  distant  objects  please  because  they  border  on  its 
»nfines,  and  are  moulded  by  its  touch.     When  I  was  a  boy,  I 


66  TABLE  TALK. 


lived  within  sight  of  a  range  of  lofty  hills,  whose  blue  tops 
blending  with  the  setting  sun  had  often  tempted  my  longing  eyes 
and  wandering  feet.  At  last  I  put  my  project  in  execution,  and 
on  a  nearer  approach,  instead  of  glimmering  air  woven  into  fan- 
tastic shapes,  found  them  huge  lumpish  heaps  of  discoloured 
earth.  I  learned  from  this  (in  part)  to  leave  "  Yarrow  unvisit- 
ed,"  and  not  idly  to  disturb  a  dream  of  good. 

Distance  of  time  has  much  the  same  effect  as  distance  of 
place.  It  is  not  surprising  that  fancy  colours  the  prospect  of 
the  future  (as  it  thinks  good,)  when  it  even  effaces  the  forms  of 
memory.  Time  takes  out  the  sting  of  pain ;  our  sorrows  after 
a  certain  period  have  been  so  often  steeped  in  a  medium  of 
thought  and  passion, that  they  "  unniould  their  essence;"  and  all 
that  remains  of  our  original  impressions  is  what  we  would  wish 
them  to  have  been.  Not  only  the  untried  steep  ascent  before  us, 
but  the  rude,  unsightly  masses  of  our  past  experience  presently 
resume  their  power  of  deception  over  the  eye :  the  golden  cloud 
soon  rests  upon  their  heads,  and  the  purple  light  of  fancy  clothes 
their  barren  sides.  Thus  we  pass  on,  while  both  ends  of  our  ex- 
istence touch  upon  Heaven  ! — There  is  (so  to  speak)  "  a  mighty 
stream  of  tendency"  to  good  in  the  human  mind,  upon  which  all 
objects  float  and  are  imperceptibly  borne  along :  and  though  in 
the  voyage  of  life  we  meet  with  strong  rebuffs,  with  rocks  and 
quicksands,  yet  there  is  "  a  tide  in  the  affairs  of  men,"  a  heav- 
ing and  a  restless  aspiration  of  the  soul,  by  means  of  which, 
"  with  sails  and  tackle  torn,"  the  wreck  and  scattered  fragments 
of  our  entire  being  drift  into  the  port  and  haven  of  our  desires ! 
In  all  that  relates  to  the  affections,  we  put  the  will  for  the  deed : 
— the  instant  the  pressure  of  unwelcome  circumstances  is  re- 
moved, the  mind  recoils  from  their  grasp*,  recovers  its  elasticity, 
and  re-unites  itself  to  that  image  of  good,  which  is  but  a  reflec- 
tion and  configuration  of  its  own  nature.  Seen  in  the  distance, 
in  the  long  perspective  of  waning  years,  the  meanest  incidents, 
enlarged  and  enriched  by  countless  recollections,  become  inter- 
esting ;  the  most  painful,  broken  and  softened  by  time,  soothe. 
How  any  object,  that  unexpectedly  brings  back  to  us  old  scenes 
and  associations,  startles  the  mind  !  What  a  yearning  it  creates 
within  us  ;  what  a  longing  to  leap  the  intermediate  space  !     How 


WHY  DISTANT  OBJECTS  PLEASE  87 

fondly  we  cling  to,  and  try  to  revive  the  impression  of  all  that  we 
once  were  ! 

"  Such  tricks  hath  strong  Imagination  !" 

In  truth,  we  impose  upon  ourselves,  and  know  not  what  we  wish 
It  is  a  cunning  artifice,  a  quaint  delusion,  by  which,  in  pretend- 
ing  to  be  what  wd  were  at  a  particular  moment  of  time,  we  would 
fain  be  all  that  we  have  since  been,  and  have  our  lives  to  come 
over  again.  It  is  not  the  little,  glimmering,  almost  annihilated 
speck  in  the  distance,  that  rivets  our  attention  and  "  hangs  upon 
the  beatings  of  our  hearts  :"  it  is  the  interval  that  separates  us 
from  it,  and  of  which  it  is  the  trembling  boundary,  that  excites 
all  this  coil  and  mighty  pudder  in  the  breast.  Into  that  great 
gap  in  our  being  "  come  thronging  soft  desires"  and  infinite  re- 
grets. It  is  the  contrast,  the  change  from  what  we  then  were, 
that  arms  the  half-extinguished  recollection  with  its  giant- 
strength,  and  lifts  the  fabric  of  the  affections  from  its  shadowy 
base.  In  contemplating  its  utmost  verge,  we  overlook  the  map 
of  our  existence,  and  retread,  in  apprehension,  the  journey  of 
life.  So  it  is  that  in  early  youth  we  strain  our  eager  sight  after 
tne  pursuits  of  manhood  ;  and,  as  we  are  sliding  off  the  stage, 
strive  to  gather  up  the  toys  and  flowers  that  pleased  our  thought- 
less childhood. 

When  I  was  quite  a  boy,  my  father  used  to  take  me  to  the 
Montpelier  Tea-gardens  at  Walworth.  Do  I  go  there  now  ? 
No ;  the  place  is  deserted,  and  its  borders  and  its  beds  o'er- 
turned.     Is  there,  then,  nothing  that  can 

"  Bring  back  the  hour 
Of  glory  in  the  grass,  of  splendour  in  the  flower  1" 

Oh  !  yes.  I  unlock  the  casket  of  memory,  and  draw  back  the 
warders  of  the  brain  ;  and  there  this  scene  of  my  infant  wan- 
derings still  lives  unfaded,  or  with  fresher  dyes.  A  new  sense 
comes  upon  me,  as  in  a  dream  ;  a  richer  perfume,  brighter 
colours  start  out;  my  eyes  dazzle;  my  heart  heaves  with  its 
new  load  of  bliss,  and  I  am  a  child  again.  My  sensations  are 
all  glossy,  spruce,  voluptuous,  and  fine  :  they  wear  a  candied 
coat,  and  are  in  holiday  trim.     I  see  the  beds  of  larkspur  with 


88  TABLE  TALK. 


purple  eyes  ;  tall  hollyhocks,  red  and  yellow ;  the  broad  sun- 
flowers,  caked  in  gold,  with  bees  buzzing  round  them ;  wilder. 
nesses  of  pinks,  and  hot-glowing  pionies ;  poppies  run  to  seed  ; 
the  sugared  lily,  and  faint  mignonette,  all  ranged  in  order,  and  as 
thick  as  they  can  grow  ;  the  box-tree  borders ;  the  gravel-walks, 
the  painted  alcove,  the  confectionary,  the  clotted  cream : — I  think 
I  see  them  now  with  sparkling  looks ;  or  have  they  vanished 
while  I  have  been  writing  this  description  of  them  ?  No  mat- 
ter ;  they  will  return  again  when  I  least  think  of  them.  All 
that  I  have  observed  since,  of  flowers  and  plants,  and  grass-plots, 
and  of  suburb  delights,  seems,  to  me,  borrowed  from  "  that  first 
garden  of  my  innocence" — to  be  slips  and  scions  stolen  from 
that  bed  of  memory.  In  this  manner  the  darlings  of  our  child- 
hood burnish  out  in  the  eye  of  after-years,  and  derive  their  sweet- 
est perfume  from  the  first  heart-felt  sigh  of  pleasure  breathed 
upon  them, 

"  like  the  sweet  south, 

That  b.-eathes  upon  a  bank  of  violets, 
Stealing  and  giving  odour  !" 

If  I  have  pleasure  in  a  flower-garden,  I  have  in  a  kitchen-garden 
too,  and  for  the  same  reason.  If  I  see  a  row  of  cabbage-plants 
or  of  peas  or  beans  coming  up,  I  immediately  think  of  those 

which  I  used  so  carefully  to  water  of  an  evening  at  W m, 

when  my  days'  tasks  were  done,  and  of  the  pain  with  which  I 
saw  them  droop  and  hang  down  their  leaves  in  the  morning's 
sun.  Again,  I  never  see  a  child's  kite  in  the  air,  but  it  seems  to 
pull  at  my  heart.  It  is  to  me  "  a  thing  of  life."  I  feel  the 
twinge  at  my  elbow,  the  flutter  and  palpitation  with  which  I  used 
to  let  go  the  string  of  my  own,  as  it  rose  in  the  air  and  towered 
among  the  clouds.  My  little  cargo  of  hopes  and  fears  ascended 
with  it ;  and  as  it  made  a  part  of  my  own  consciousness  then,  it 
does  so  still,  and  appears  "  like  some  gay  creature  of  the  ele- 
ment," my  playmate  when  life  was  young,  and  twin-born  with 
my  earliest  recollections.  I  could  enlarge  on  this  subject  of 
childish  amusements,  but  Mr.  Leigh  Hunt  has  treated  it  so  well 
in  a  paper  in  the  Indicator,  on  the  productions  of  the  toy-shopa 
of  the  metropolis,  that  if  I  were  to  insist  more  on  it,  I  should  only 


WHY  DISTANT  OBJECTS  PLEASE  89 

pass  for  an  imitator  of  that  ingenious  and  agreeable  writer,  and 
for  an  indifferent  one  into  the  bargain. 

Sounds,  smells,  and  sometimes  tastes,  are  remembered  longer 
lhan  visible  objects,  and  serve,  perhaps,  better  for  links  in  the 
chain  of  association.  *  The  reason  seems  to  be  this :  they  are  in 
their  nature  intermittent,  and  comparative^  rare ;  whereas  objects 
of  sight  are  always  before  us,  and,  by  their  continuous  succession, 
drive  one  another  out.  The  eye  is  always  open  ;  and  between 
any  given  impression  and  its  recurrence  a  second  time,  fifty 
thousand  other  impressions  have,  in  all  likelihood,  been  stamped 
upon  the  sense  and  on  the  brain.  The  other  senses  are  not  so 
active  or  so  vigilant.  They  are  but  seldom  called  into  play 
The  ear,  for  example,  is  oftener  courted  by  silence  than  noise ; 
and  the  sounds  that  break  that  silence  sink  deeper  and  more 
durably  into  the  mind.  I  have  for  this  reason  a  more  present 
and  lively  recollection  of  certain  scents,  tastes,  and  sounds,  than 
I  have  of  mere  visible  images,  because  they  are  more  original, 
and  less  worn  by  frequent  repetition.  Where  there  is  nothng 
interposed  between  any  two  impressions,  whatever  the  distance 
of  time  that  parts  them,  they  naturally  seem  to  touch  ;  and  the 
renewed  impression  recalls  the  former  one  in  full  force,  without 
distraction  or  competition.  The  taste  of  barberries,  which  have 
hung  out  in  the  snow  during  the  severity  of  a  North  American 
winter,  I  have  in  my  mouth  still,  after  an  interval  of  thirty  years  ; 
for  I  have  met  with  no  other  taste,  in  all  that  time,  at  all  like  it. 
It  remains  by  itself,  almost  like  the  impression  of  a  sixth  sense. 
But  the  colour  is  mixed  up  indiscriminately  with  the  colours  of 
many  other  berries,  nor  should  I  be  able  to  distinguish  it  among 
them.  The  smell  of  a  brick-kiln  carries  the  evidence  of  its  own 
identity  with  it :  neither  is  it  to  me  (from  peculiar  associations) 
unpleasant.  The  colour  of  brickdust,  on  the  contrary,  is  more 
common,  and  easily  confounded  with  other  colours.  Raphael 
did  not  keep  it  quite  distinct  from  his  flesh-colour.  I  will  not 
say  that  we  have  a  more  perfect  recollection  of  the  human  voice, 
than  of  that  complex  picture,  the  human  face  ;  but  I  think  the 
sudden  hearing  of  a  well-known  voice  has  something  in  it  more 
affecting  and  striking  than  the  sudden  meeting  with  the  face  • 
perhaps,  indeed,  this  may  be  because  we  Jiave  a  more  familiar 

5 


90  TABLE  TALK. 


remembrance  of  the  one  than  the  other,  and  the  voice  takes  us 
more  by  surprise  on  that  account.  I  am  by  no  means  certain 
(generally  speaking)  that  we  have  the  ideas  of  the  other  senses 
so  accurate  and  well  made  out  as  those  of  visible  form ;  what  I 
chiefly  mean  is,  that  the  feelings  belonging  to  the  sensations  of 
our  other  organs,  wherr  accidentally  recalled,  are  kept  more  se- 
parate and  pure.  Musical  sounds,  probably,  owe  a  good  deal 
of  their  interest  and  romantic  effect  to  the  principle  here  spoken 
of.  Were  they  constant,  they  would  become  indifferent,  as  we 
may  find  with  respect  to  disagreeable  noises,  which  we  do  not 
hear  after  a  time.  I  know  no  situation  more  pitiable  than  that 
of  a  blind  fiddler,  who  has  but  one  sense  left  (if  we  except  the 
sense  of  snuff-taking*),  and  who  has  that  stunned  or  deafened 
by  his  own  villanous  noises  !     Shakespear  says, 

"  How  silver-sweet  sound  lovers'  tongues  by  night !" 

It  has  been  suggested,  in  explanation  of  this  passage,  that  it  is 
because  in  the  day-time  lovers  are  occupied  with  one  another's 
faces,  but  that  at  night  they  can  only  distinguish  the  sound  of 
each  other's  voices.  I  know  not  how  this  may  be  ;  but  I  have, 
ere  now,  heard  a  voice  break  so  upon  the  silence, 

"  To  angels'  'twas  most  like," 

and  charm  the  moonlight  air  with  its  balmy  essence,  while  the 
budding  leaves  trembled  to  its  accents.  Would  I  might  have 
heard  it  once  more  whisper  peace  and  hope  (as  erst  when  it  was 
mingled  with  the  breath  of  spring),  and  with  its  soft  pulsations 
lift  winged  fancy  to  heaven  !  But  it  has  ceased,  or  turned  where 
I  no  more  shall  hear  it ! — Hence,  also,  we  see  what  is  the  charm 
of  the  shepherd's  pastoral  reed ;  and  why  we  hear  him,  as  it 
were,  piping  to  his  flock,  even  in  a  picture.  Our  ears  are  fancy- 
stung  !  I  remember  once  strolling  along  the  margin  of  a  stream, 
skirted  with  willows  and  plashy  sedges,  in  one  of  those  low  shel- 
tered valleys  on  Salisbury  Plain,  where  the  monks  of  former  ages 
had  planted  chapels  and  built  hermits'  cells.  There  was  a  little 
parish-church  near,  but  tall  elms  and  quivering  alders  hid  it  frono 

•  See  Wilkie's  Blind  Fiddler. 


WHY  DISTANT  OBJECTS  PLEASE.  91 

my  sight,  when,  all  of  a  sudden,  I  was  startled  by  the  sound  of 
the  full  organ  pealing  on  the  ear,  accompanied  by  rustic  voices 
and  the  willing  choir  of  village-maids  and  children.  It  rose,  in- 
deed, "  like  an  exhalation  of  rich  distilled  perfumes."  The  dew 
from  a  thousand  pastures  was  gathered  in  its  softness  ;  the  silence 
of  a  thousand  years  spoke  in  it.  It  came  upon  the  heart  like  the 
calm  beauty  of  death  :  fancy  caught  the  sound,  and  faith  mounted 
on  it  to  the  skies.  It  filled  the  valley  like  a  mist,  and  still  poured 
out  its  endless  chaunt,  and  still  it  swells  upon  the  ear,  and  wraps 
me  in  a  golden  trance,  drowning  the  noisy  tumult  of  the  world ! 

There  is  a  curious  and  interesting  discussion,  on  the  compara- 
tive distinctness  of  our  visual  and  other  external  impressions,  in 
Mr.  Fearn's  Essay  on  Consciousness,  with  which  I  shall  try  to 
descend  from  this  rhapsody  to  the  ground  of  common  sense  and 
plain  reasoning  again.  After  observing,  a  little  before,  that 
'  nolhing  is  more  untrue  than  that  sensations  of  vision  do  neces- 
sarily leave  more  vivid  and  durable  ideas  than  those  of  grosser 
senses,"  he  proceeds  to  give  a  number  of  illustrations  in  support 
of  this  position.  "  Notwithstanding,"  he  says,  "  the  advantages 
here  enumerated  in  favour  of  sight,  I  think  there  is  no  doubt  that 
a  man  will  come  to  forget  acquaintance,  and  many  other  visible 
objects,  noticed  in  mature  age,  before  he  will  in  the  least  forget 
tastes  and  smells,  of  only  moderate  interest,  encountered  either  in 
his  childhood,  or  at  any  time  since. 

"  In  the  course  of  voyaging  to  various  distant  regions,  it  has 
several  times  happened  that  I  have  eaten  once  or  twice  of  differ- 
ent things  that  never  came  in  my  way  before  nor  since.  Some 
of  these  have  been  pleasant,  and  some  scarce  better  than  insipid  ; 
but  I  have  no  reason  to  think  1  have  forgot,  or  much  altered  the 
ideas  left  by  those  single  impulses  of  taste ;  though  here  the 
memory  of  them  certainly  has  not  been  preserved  by  repetition. 
It  is  clear  I  must  have  seen,  as  well  as  tasted  those  things ;  and 
1  am  decided  that  I  remember  the  tastes  with  more  precision  than 
I  do  the  visual  sensations. 

"  I  remember  having  once,  and  only  once,  eat  kangaroo  in 
New  Holland  ;  and  having  once  smelled  a  baker's  shop,  having 
a  peculiar  odour,  in  the  city  of  Bassorah.  Now  both  these  grosa 
ideas  remain  with  me  quite  as  vivid  as  any  visual  ideas  of  those 


93  TABLE  TALK. 


places ;  and  this  could  not  be  from  repetition,  but  really  from 
inlerest  in  the  sensation. 

"  Twenty-eight  years  ago,  in  the  island  of  Jamaica,  I  partook 
(perhaps  twice)  of  a  certain  fruit,  of  the  taste  of  which  I  have 
now  a  very  fresh  idea  ;  and  I  could  add  other  instances  of  that 
period. 

"  I  have  had  repeated  proofs  of  having  lost  retention  of  visual 
objects,  at  various  distances  of  time,  though  they  had  once  been 
familiar.  I  have  not,  during  thirty  years,  forgot  the  delicate, 
and  in  itself  most  trifling  sensation,  that  the  palm  of  my  hand 
used  to  convey,  when  I  was  a  boy,  trying  the  different  effects  of 
what  boys  call  light  and  heavy  tops  ;  but  I  cannot  remember  within 
several  shades  of  the  brown  coat  which  I  left  off  a  week  ago.  If 
any  man  thinks  he  can  do  better,  let  him  take  an  ideal  survey  of 
his  wardrobe,  and  then  actually  refer  to  it  for  proof. 

"  After  retention  of  such  ideas,  it  certainly  would  be  very  diffi- 
cult to  persuade  me  that  feeling,  taste,  and  smell  can  scarce  be 
said  to  leave  ideas,  unless  indistinct  and  obscure  ones 

"  Show  a  Londoner  correct  models  of  twenty  London  churches, 
and,  at  the  same  time,  a  model  of  each,  which  differs,  in  several 
considerable  features,  from  the  truth,  and  I  venture  to  say  he 
shall  not  tell  you,  in  any  instance,  which  is  the  correct  one,  ex- 
cept by  mere  chance. 

"  If  he  is  an  architect,  he  may  be  much  more  correct  than  any 
ordinary  person :  and  this  obviously  is,  because  he  has  felt  an 
interest  in  viewing  these  structures,  which  an  ordinary  person 
does  not  feel :  and  here  interest  is  the  sole  reason  of  his  remem- 
bering more  correctly  than  his  neighbour. 

"  I  once  heard  a  person  quaintly  ask  another,  How  many  trees 
there  are  in  St.  Paul's  churchyard  ?  The  question  itself  indi- 
cates that  many  cannot  answer  it ;  and  this  is  found  to  be  the 
case  with  those  who  have  passed  the  church  a  hundred  times 
whilst  the  cause  is,  that  every  individual  in  the  busy  stream 
which  glides  past  St.  Paul's  is  engrossed  in  various  other  in- 
terests. 

"  How  often  does  it  happen  that  we  enter  a  well-known  apart- 
ment, or  meet  a  well-known  friend,  and  receive  some  vague  idea 
of  visible  difference,  but  cannot  possibly  find  out  what  it  is  :  until 


WHY  DISTANT  OBJECTS  PLEASE.  93 

at  length  we  come  to  perceive  (or  perhaps  must  be  told)  that 
some  ornament  or  furniture  is  removed,  altered,  or  added  in  the 
apartment ;  or  that  our  friend  has  cut  his  hair,  taken  a  wig,  or 
has  made  any  of  twenty  considerable  alterations  in  his  appear- 
ance. At  other  times,  we  have  no  perception  of  alteration  what- 
ever, though  the  like  has  taken  place. 

"  It  is,  however,  certain,  that  sight,  apposited  with  interest, 
can  retain  tolerably  exact  copies  of  sensations,  especially  if  not 
too  complex ;  such  as  of  the  human  countenance  and  figure. 
Yet  the  voice  will  convince  us,  when  the  countenance  will  not ; 
and  he  is  reckoned  an  excellent  painter,  and  no  ordinary  genius, 
who  can  make  a  tolerable  likeness  from  memory.  Nay,  more, 
it  is  a  conspicuous  proof  of  the  inaccuracy  of  visual  ideas,  that 
it  is  an  effort  of  consummate  art,  attained  by  many  years'  prac- 
tice, to  take  a  strict  likeness  of  the  human  countenance,  even 
when  the  object  is  present ;  and  among  those  cases,  where  the 
wilful  cheat  of  flattery  has  been  avoided,  we  still  find  in  how 
very  few  instances  the  best  painters  produce  a  likeness  up  to  the 
life,  though  practice  and  interest  join  in  the  attempt. 

"  I  imagine  an  ordinary  person  would  find  it  very  difficult, 
supposing  he  had  some  knowledge  of  drawing,  to  afford,  from 
memory,  a  tolerable  sketch  of  such  a  familiar  object  as  his  cur- 
tain, his  carpet,  or  his  dressing-gown,  if  the  pattern  of  either  be 
at  all  various  or  irregular  ;  yet  he  will  instantly  tell,  with  preci- 
sion, either  if  his  snuff"  or  his  wine  has  not  the  same  character  it 
had  yesterday,  though  both  these  are  compounds. 

"  Beyond  all  this  I  may  observe,  that  a  draper,  who  is  in  the 
daily  habit  of  such  comparisons,  cannot  carry  in  his  mind  the 
particular  shade  of  a  colour  during  a  second  of  time  ;  and  has 
no  certainty  of  tolerably  matching  two  simple  colours,  except  by 
placing  the  patterns  in  contact." — Essay  on  Consciousness,  p. 
303. 

I  will  conclude  the  subject  of  this  Essay  with  observing,  that  a 
nearer  and  more  familiar  acquaintance  with  persons  has  a  diffe- 
rent and  more  favourable  effect  than  that  with  places  or  things. 
The  latter  improve  by  being  removed  to  a  distance,  for  we  have 
no  interest  in  backbiting  them  :  the  former  gain  by  being  brought 
nearer  and  more  home  to  us,  and  thus  stripped  of  artful  and  ill- 


94  TABLE  TALK. 


natured  misrepresentations.  Report  or  imagination  very  sel- 
dom raises  any  individual  so  high  in  our  estimation  as  to  disap- 
point us  greatly  when  we  are  introduced  to  him  :  prejudice  and 
malice  constantly  exaggerate  defects  beyond  the  reality.  Igno- 
rance alone  makes  monsters  or  bugbears  :  our  actual  acquaint- 
ances are  all  very  common-place  people.  The  thing  is,  that  as 
a  matter  of  hearsay  or  conjecture,  we  make  abstractions  of  par- 
ticular vices,  and  irritate  ourselves  against  some  particular 
quality  or  action  of  the  person  we  dislike  : — whereas  individuals 
are  concrete  existences,  not  arbitrary  denominations  or  nick- 
names ;  and  have  innumerable  other  qualities,  good,  bad,  and 
indifferent,  besides  the  damning  feature  with  which  we  fill  up 
the  portrait  or  caricature  in  our  previous  fancies.  We  can 
scarcely  hate  any  one  that  we  know.  An  acute  observer  com- 
plained, that  if  there  was  any  one  to  whom  he  had  a  particular 
spite,  and  a  wish  to  let  him  see  it,  the  moment  he  came  to  sit 
down  with  him,  his  enmity  was  disarmed  by  some  unforeseen 
circumstance.  If  it  was  a  Quarterly  Reviewer,  he  was  in  other 
respects  like  any  other  man.  Suppose,  again,  your  adversary 
turns  out  a  very  ugly  man,  or  wants  an  eye,  you  are  baulked  in 
that  way : — he  is  not  what  you  expected,  the  object  of  your  ab- 
stract hatred  and  implacable  disgust.  He  may  be  a  very  disa- 
greeable person,  but  he  is  no  longer  the  same.  If  you  come  into 
a  room  where  a  man  is,  you  find,  in  general,  that  he  has  a  nose 
upon  his  face.  "  There's  sympathy  !"  This  alone  is  a  diver- 
sion to  your  unqualified  contempt.  He  is  stupid,  and  says  noth- 
ing, but  he  seems  to  have  something  in  him  when  he  laughs. 
You  had  conceived  of  him  as  a  rank  Whig  or  Tory — yet  he  talks 
upon  other  subjects.  You  knew  that  he  was  a  virulent  party- 
writer  ;  but  you  find  that  the  man  himself  is  a  tame  sort  of  ani- 
mal enough.  He  does  not  bite.  That's  something.  In  short, 
you  can  make  nothing  of  it.  Even  opposite  vices  balance  one 
another.  A  man  may  be  pert  in  company,  but  he  is  also  dull  ; 
so  that  you  cannot,  though  you  try,  hate  him  cordially,  merely 
for  the  wish  to  be  offensive.  He  is  a  knave.  Granted.  You 
l<;arn,  on  a  nearer  acquaintance,  what  you  did  not  know  before — 
that  he  is  a  fool  as  well  ;  so  you  forgive  him.  On  the  other 
hand,  he  may  be  a  profligate  public  character,  and  may   make 


WHY  DISTANT  OBJECTS  PLEASE.  i*5 


no  secret  of  it ;  but  he  gives  you  a  hearty  shake  by  the  hand, 
speaks  kindly  to  servants,  and  supports  an  aged  father  and  mo- 
ther. Politics  apart,  he  is  a  very  honest  fellow.  You  are  told 
that  a  person  has  carbuncles  on  his  face  ;  but  you  bave  ocular 
proofs  that  he  is  sallow,  and  pale  as  a  ghost.  This  does  not 
much  mend  the  matter ;  but  it  blunts  the  edge  of  the  ridicule, 
and  turns  your  indignation  against  the  inventor  of  the  lie  ;  but 

he  is ,  the  editor  of  a  Scotch  Magazine  ;   so  you  are  just 

where  you  were.  I  am  not  very  fond  of  anonymous  criticism  ; 
I  want  to  know  who  the  author  can  be :  but  the  moment  I  learn 

this,  I  am  satisfied.     Even would  do  well  to  come  out  of 

his  disguise.  It  is  the  mask  only  that  we  dread  and  hate  :  the 
man  may  have  something  human  about  him !  The  notions, 
in  short,  which  we  entertain  of  people  at  a  distance,  or  from  par- 
tial representations,  or  from  guess-work,  are  simple  uncompounded 
ideas,  which  answer  to  nothing  in  reality :  those  which  we  de- 
rive from  experience  are  mixed  modes,  the  only  true,  and,  in 
general,  the  most  favourable  ones.  Instead  of  naked  deformity 
or  abstract  perfection — 

"  Those  faultless  monsters  which  the  world  ne'er  saw" — 

"  the  web  of  our  lives  is  of  a  mingled  yarn,  good  and  ill  together: 
our  virtues  would  be  proud,  if  our  faults  whipt  them  not ;  and 
our  vices  would  despair,  if  they  were  not  encouraged  by  our 
virtues."  This  was  truly  and  finely  said  long  ago,  by  one  who 
knew  the  strong  and  weak  points  of  human  nature  :  but  it  is 
what  sects  and  parties,  and  those  philosophers  whose  pride  and 
boast  it  is  to  classify  by  nicknames,  have  yet  to  learn  the 
meaning  of ! 


96  TABLE  TALK. 


ESSAY  X. 

On  Corporate  Bodies. 

Corporate  bodies  are  more  corrupt  and  profligate  than  indivi- 
duals,  because  they  have  more  power  to  do  mischief,  and  are 
less  amenable  to  disgrace  or  punishment.  They  feel  neither 
shame,  remorse,  gratitude,  nor  good-will.  The  principle  of 
private  or  natural  conscience  is  extinguished  in  each  individual 
(we  have  no  moral  sense  in  the  breasts  of  others,)  and  nothing  is 
considered  but  how  the  united  efforts  of  the  whole  (released  from 
idle  scruples)  may  be  best  directed  to  the  obtaining  of  political 
advantages  or  privileges  to  be  shared  as  common  spoil.  Each 
member  reaps  the  benefit,  and  lays  the  blame,  if  there  is  any, 
upon  the  rest.  The  esprit  de  corps  becomes  the  ruling  passion 
of  every  corporate  body,  compared  with  which  the  motives  of 
delicacy  or  decorum  towards  others  are  looked  upon  as  being 
both  impertinent  and  improper.  If  any  person  sets  up  a  plea  of 
this  sort  in  opposition  to  the  rest,  he  is  over-ruled,  he  gets  ill- 
blood,  and  does  no  good :  he  is  regarded  as  an  interloper,  a 
black  sheep  in  the  flock,  and  is  either  sent  to  Coventry,  or  obliged 
to  acquiesce  in  the  notions  and  wishes  of  those  he  associates  and 
is  expected  to  co-operate  with.  The  refinements  of  private 
judgment  are  submitted  to  and  negatived  by  a  committee  of  the 
whole  body,  while  the  projects  and  interests  of  the  Corporation 
meet  with  a  secret  but  powerful  support  in  the  self-love  of  the 
different  members.  Remonstrance — opposition  is  fruitless, 
troublesome,  invidious :  it  answers  no  one  end  :  and  a  conform- 
ity to  the  sense  of  the  company  is  found  to  be  no  less  necessary 
to  a  reputation  for  good-fellowship  than  to  a  quiet  life.  "  Self- 
love  and  social"  here  look  like  the  same  ;  and  in  consulting  the 
interests  of  a  particular  class,  which  are  also  your  own,  there  is 
even  a  show  of  public  virtue.     He  who  is  a  captious,  impraoti- 


ON  CORPORATE  BODIES.  97 

cable,  dissatisfied  member  of  his  little  club  or  coterie,  is  immedi- 
ately set  down  as  a  bad  member  of  the  community  in  general,  as 
no  friend  to  regularity  and  order,  "  a  pestilent  fellow,"  and  one 
who  is  incapable  of  sympathy,  attachment,  or  cordial  co-opera- 
tion in  any  department  or  undertaking.  Thus  the  most  refrac- 
tory novice  in  such  matters  becomes  weaned  from  his  obligations 
to  the  larger  society,  which  only  breed  him  inconvenience 
without  any  adequate  recompense,  and  wedded  to  a  nearer  and 
dearer  one,  where  he  finds  every  kind  of  comfort  and  consola- 
tion. He  contracts  the  vague  and  unmeaning  character  of  Man 
into  the  more  emphatic  title  of  Freeman  and  Alderman.  The 
claims  of  an  undefined  humanity  sit  looser  and  looser  upon  him, 
at  the  same  time  that  he  draws  the  bands  of  his  new  engage- 
ments closer  and  tighter  about  him.  He  loses  sight,  by  degrees, 
of  all  common  sense  and  feeling  in  the  petty  squabbles,  intrigues, 
feuds,  and  airs  of  affected  importance,  to  which  he  has  made 
himself  an  accessary.  He  is  quite  an  altered  man.  "  Really 
the  society  were  under  considerable  obligations  to  him  in  that 
last  business ;"  that  is  to  say,  in  some  paltry  job  or  under-hand 
attempt  to  encroach  upon  the  rights,  or  dictate  to  the  understand- 
ings of  the  neighbourhood.  In  the  mean  time,  they  eat,  drink, 
and  carouse  together.  They  wash  down  all  minor  animosities 
and  unavoidable  differences  of  opinion  in  pint-bumpers  ;  and  the 
complaints  of  the  multitude  are  lost  in  the  clatter  of  plates  and 
the  roaring  of  loyal  catches  at  every  quarter's  meeting  or 
mayor's  feast.  The  town-hall  reels  with  an  unwieldy  sense  of 
self-importance  :  "  the  very  stones  prate"  of  processions :  the 
common  pump  creaks  in  concert  with  the  uncorking  of  bottles 
and  tapping  of  beer-barrels  :  the  market-cross  looks  big  with 
authority.  Every  thing  has  an  ambiguous,  upstart,  repulsive 
air.  Circle  within  circle  is  formed,  an  imperium  in  imperio  :  and 
the  business  is  to  exclude  from  the  first  circle  all  the  notions, 
opinions,  ideas,  interests,  and  pretensions  of  the  second.  Hence 
there  arises  not  only  an  antipathy  to  common  sense  and  decency 
in  those  things  where  there  is  a  real  opposition  of  interest  or 
clashing  of  prejudice,  but  it  becomes  a  habit  and  a  favourite 
amusement  in  those  who  are  "  dressed  in  a  little  brief  authority," 
Jo  thwart,  annoy,  insult,  and  harass  others  on  all  occasions  where 


98  TABLE  TALK. 


the  least  opportunity  or  pretext  for  it  occurs.  Spite,  bickerings, 
back-biting,  insinuations,  lies,  jealousies,  nicknames,  are  the  order 
of  the  day,  and  nobody  knows  what  it  is  all  about.  One  would 
think  that  the  mayor,  aldermen,  and  liverymen  were  a  higher 
and  more  select  species  of  animals  than  their  townsmen  ;  though 
there  is  no  difference  whatever,  but  in  their  gowns  and  staff  of 
office  !  This  is  the  essence  of  the  esprit  de  corps.  It  is  certainly 
not  a  very  delectable  source  of  contemplation  or  subject  to 
treat  of. 

Public  bodies  are  so  far  worse  than  the  individuals  composing 
them,  because  the  official  takes  place  of  the  moral  sense.  The 
nerves  that  in  themselves  were  soft  and  pliable  enough,  and  re- 
sponded naturally  to  the  touch  of  pity,  when  fastened  into  a  ma- 
chine  of  that  sort,  become  callous  and  rigid,  and  throw  off  every 
extraneous  application  that  can  be  made  to  them  with  perfect 
apathy.  An  appeal  is  made  to  the  ties  of  individual  friendship : 
the  body  in  general  know  nothing  of  them.  A  case  has  occur- 
red which  strongly  called  forth  the  compassion  of  the  person 
who  was  witness  of  it :  but  the  body  (or  any  special  deputation 
of  them)  were  not  present  when  it  happened.  These  little  weak- 
nesses and  "  compunctious  visitings  of  nature"  are  effectually 
guarded  against,  indeed,  by  the  very  rules  and  regulations  of  the 
society,  as  well  as  by  its  spirit.  The  individual  is  the  creature 
of  his  feelings  of  all  sorts,  the  sport  of  his  vices  and  his  virtues 
— like  the  fool  in  Shakespear,  "  motley's  his  proper  wear  :" — cor- 
porate bodies  are  dressed  in  a  moral  uniform  ;  mixed  motives  do 
not  operate  there,  frailty  is  made  into  a  system,  "  diseases  are 
turned  into  commodities."  Only  so  much  of  any  one's  natural 
or  genuine  impulses  can  influence  him  in  his  artificial  capacity 
as  formally  comes  home  to  the  aggregate  conscience  of  those 
with  whom  he  acts,  or  bears  upon  the  interests  (real  or  pretend- 
ed,) the  importance,  respectability,  and  professed  objects  of  the 
society.  Beyond  that  point  the  nerve  is  bound  up,  the  conscience 
is  seared,  and  the  torpedo-touch  of  so  much  inert  matter  operates 
to  deaden  the  best  feelings  and  harden  the  heart.  Laughter  and 
tears  are  said  to  be  the  characteristic  signs  of  humanity.  Laugh- 
ter is  common  enough  in  such  places  as  a  set-off  to  the  mock- 
gravity  :  but  who  ever  saw  a  public  l>ody  in  tears  ?     Nothing 


ON  CORPORATE  BODIES.  99 

but  a  job  or  some  knavery  can  keep  them  serious  for  ten  minutes 
together.* 

Such  are  the  qualifications  and  the  apprenticeship  necessary 
to  make  a  man  tolerated,  to  enable  him  to  pass  as  a  cypher,  or 
be  admitted  as  a  mere  numerical  unit,  in  any  corporate  body  : 
)  be  a  leader  and  dictator,  he  must  be  diplomatic  in  impertinence, 
*nd  officious  in  every  dirty  work.  He  must  not  merely  conform 
to  established  prejudices;  he  must  flatter  them.  He  must  not 
merely  be  insensible  to  the  demands  of  moderation  and  equity  ; 
he  must  be  loud  against  them.  He  must  not  simply  fall  in  with 
all  sorts  of  contemptible  cabals  and  intrigues ;  he  must  be  inde- 
fatigable in  fomenting  them,  and  setting  every  body  together 
by  the  ears.  He  must  not  only  repeat,  but  invent  lies.  He 
must  make  speeches  and  write  hand-bills ;  he  must  be  devoted 
to  the  wishes  and  objects  of  the  society,  its  creature,  its  jackall, 
its  busy-body,  its  mouth-piece,  its  prompter ;  he  must  deal  in 
law-cases,  in  demurrers,  in  charters,  in  traditions,  in  common- 
places, in  logic  and  rhetoric — in  every  thing  but  common  sense 
and  honesty.  He  must  (in  Mr.  Burke's  phrase)  "  disembowel 
himself  of  his  natural  entrails,  and  be  stuffed  with  paltry,  blur- 
red sheets  of  parchment  about  the  rights"  of  the  privileged  few. 
He  must  be  a  concentrated  essence,  a  varnished,  powdered  re- 
presentative of  the  vices,  absurdities,  hypocrisy,  jealousy,  pride, 
and  pragmatical  meanness  of  his  party.  Such  a  one  by  bustle 
and  self-importance  and  puffing,  by  flattering  one  to  his  face, 
and  abusing  another  behind  his  back,  by  lending  himself  to  the 
weaknesses  of  some,  and  pampering  the  mischievous  propensi- 
ties of  others,  will  pass  for  a  great  man  in  a  little  society. 

Age  does  not  improve  the  morality  of  public  bodies.  They  grow 
more  and  more  tenacious  of  their  idle  privileges  and  senseless  self- 

*  We  sometimes  see  a  whole  play-house  in  tears.  But  the  audience  at  a 
theatre,  though  a  public  assembly,  are  not  a  public  body.  They  are  not  in- 
corporated into  a  frame-work  of  exclusive,  narrow-minded  interssts  of  their 
own.  Each  individual  looks  out  of  his  own  insignificance  at  a  scene,  ideal 
perhaps,  and  foreign  to  himself,  but  true  to  nature  ;  friends,  strangers,  meet  on 
the  common  ground  of  humanity,  and  the  tears  that  spring  from  their  breasts 
are  those  which  "  sacred  pity  has  engendered."  They  are  a  mixed  multitude 
melted  into  sympathy  by  remote,  imaginary  events,  not  a  combination  ce- 
mented by  petty  views,  and  sordid,  selfish  prejudices. 


100  TABLE  TALK. 


consequence.  They  get  weak  and  obstinate  at  the  same  time. 
Those,  who  belong  to  them,  have  all  the  upstart  pride  and  petti- 
fogging spirit  of  their  present  character  ingrafted  on  the  venerable- 
ness  and  superstitious  sanctity  of  ancient  institutions.  They  are 
naturally  at  issue,  first  with  their  neighbours,  and  next  with  their 
contemporaries,  on  all  matters  of  common  propriety  and  judg- 
ment. They  become  more  attached  to  forms,  the  more  obsolete 
they  are ;  and  the  defence  of  every  absurd  and  invidious  dis- 
tinction is  a  debt  which  (by  implication)  they  owe  to  the  dead  as 
well  as  to  the  living.  What  might  once  have  been  of  serious 
practical  utility  they  turn  to  farce,  by  retaining  the  letter  when 
the  spirit  is  gone :  and  they  do  this  the  more,  the  more  glaring 
the  inconsistency  and  want  of  sound  reasoning ;  for  they  think 
they  thus  give  proof  of  their  zeal  and  attachment  to  the  abstract 
principle  on  which  old  establishments  exist,  the  ground  of  pre- 
scription and  authority.  The  greater  the  wrong,  the  greater  the 
right,  in  all  such  cases.  The  esprit  de  corps  does  not  take  much 
merit  to  itself  for  upholding  what  is  justifiable  in  any  system  or 
in  the  proceedings  of  any  party,  but  for  adhering  to  what  is  pal- 
pably injurious.  You  may  exact  the  first  from  an  enemy :  the 
last  is  the  province  of  a  friend.  It  has  been  made  a  subject  of 
complaint,  that  the  champions  of  the  Church,  for  example,  who 
are  advanced  to  dignities  and  honours,  are  hardly  ever  those  who 
lefend  the  common  principles  of  Christianity,  but  those  who 
■olunteer  to  man  the  out-works,  and  set  up  ingenious  excuses  for 
le  questionable  points,  the  ticklish  places  in  the  established  form 
of  worship,  that  is,  for  those  which  are  attacked  from  without; 
and  are  supposed  in  danger  of  being  undermined  by  stratagem, 
or  carried  by  assault  ! 

The  great  resorts  and  seats  of  learning  often  outlive  in  this 
way  the  intention  of  the  founders,  as  the  world  outgrows  them. 
They  may  be  said  to  resemble  antiquated  coquets  of  the  last  age, 
who  think  every  thing  ridiculous  and  intolerable  that  was  not  in 
fashion  when  they  were  young,  and  yet  are  standing  proofs  of  the 
progress  of  taste  and  the  vanity  of  human  pretensions.  Our  uni- 
versities are,  in  a  great  measure,  become  cisterns  to  hold,  not 
conduits  to  disperse  knowledge.  The  age  has  the  start  of  them  ; 
that  is,  other  sources  of  knowledge  have  been  opened  since  their 


ON  CORPORATE  BODIES.  101 


formation,  to  which  the  vvorid  have  had  access,  and  have  drunk 
plentifully  at  those  living  fountains,  but  from  which  they  are  de- 
barred by  the  tenor  of  their  charter,  and  as  a  matter  of  dignity 
and  privilege.  They  have  grown  poor,  like  the  old  grandees  in 
some  countries,  by  subsisting  on  the  inheritance  of  learning, 
while  the  people  have  grown  rich  by  trade.  They  are  too  much 
in  the  nature  of  Jixtures  in  intellect :  they  stop  the  way  in  the 
road  to  truth ;  or  at  any  rate  (for  they  do  not  themselves  ad- 
vance) they  can  only  be  of  service  as  a  check-weight  on  the  too 
hasty  and  rapid  career  of  innovation.  All  that  has  been  invented 
or  thought  in  the  last  two  hundred  years  they  take  no  cognisance 
of,  or  as  little  as  possible ;  they  are  above  it ;  they  stand  upon 
the  ancient  land-marks,  and  will  not  budge ;  whatever  was  not 
known  when  they  were  first  endowed,  they  are  still  in  profound 
and  lofty  ignorance  of.  Yet  in  that  period  how  much  has  been 
done  in  literature,  arts,  and  science,  of  which  (with  the  excep- 
tion of  mathematical  knowledge,  the  hardest  to  gainsay  or  subject 
to  the  trammels  of  prejudice  and  barbarous  ipse  dirits,)  scarce  any 
trace  is  to  be  found  in  the  authentic  modes  of  study  and  legitimate 
inquiry,  which  prevail  at  either  of  our  Universities !  The  un- 
avoidable aim  of  all  corporate  bodies  of  learning  is  not  to  grow 
wise,  or  teach  others  wisdom,  but  to  prevent  any  one  else  from 
being  or  seeming  wiser  than  themselves;  in  other  words,  their 
infallible  tendency  is  in  the  end  to  suppress  inquiry  and  darken 
knowledge,  by  setting  limits  to  the  mind  of  man,  and  saying  to 
his  proud  spirit,  Hitherto  shalt  thou  come,  and  no  farther  !  It  would 
not  be  an  unedifying  experiment  to  make  a  collection  of  the  titles 
of  works  published  in  the  course  of  the  year  by  Members  of  the 
Universities.  If  any  attempt  is  to  be  made  to  patch  up  an  idle 
system  in  policy  or  legislation  or  church-government,  it  is  by  a 
Member  of  the  University :  if  any  hashed-up  speculation  on  an 
old  exploded  argument  is  to  be  brought  forward  "  in  spite  of 
sha?ne,  in  erring  reason's  spite,"  it  is  by  a  Member  of  the  Univer- 
sity :  if  a  paltry  project  is  ushered  into  the  world  for  combining 
ancient  prejudices  with  modern  time-serving,  it  is  by  a  Member 
of  the  University.  Thus  we  get  at  a  stated  supply  of  annual 
Defences  of  the  Sinking  Fund,  Thoughts  on  the  Evils  of  Educa- 
tion, Treatises  on  Predestination,  and  Eulogies  on  Mr.  Malthus, 


103  TABLE  TALK. 


all  from  the  same  source,  and  through  the  same  vent.  If  they 
came  from  any  other  quarter,  nobody  would  look  at  them  ;  but 
they  have  an  Imprimatur  from  dulness  and  authority :  we  know 
that  there  is  no  offence  in  them ;  and  they  are  siuck  in  the  shop- 
windows,  and  read  (in  the  intervals  of  Lord  Byron's  works,  or 
the  Scotch  Novels)  in  cathedral  towns  and  close  boroughs  ! 

It  is,  I  understand  and  believe,  pretty  much  the  same  in  more 
modern  institutions  for  the  encouragement  of  the  Fine  Arts. 
The  end  is  lost  in  the  means  :  rules  take  place  of  nature  and 
genius  ;  cabal  and  bustle  and  struggles  for  rank  and  precedence 
supersede  the  study  and  the  love  of  art.  A  Royal  Academy  is  a 
kind  of  hospital  and  infirmary  for  the  obliquities  of  taste  and  in- 
genuity— a  receptacle  where  enthusiasm  and  originality  stop  and 
stagnate,  and  spread  their  influence  no  farther,  instead  of  being 
a  school  founded  for  genius,  or  a  temple  built  to  fame.  The  ge- 
nerality of  those  who  wriggle,  or  fawn,  or  beg  their  way  to  a 
seat  there,  live  on  their  certificate  of  merit  to  a  good  old  age,  and 
are  seldom  heard  of  afterwards.  If  a  man  of  sterling  capacity 
gets  among  them,  and  minds  his  own  business,  he  is  nobody ;  he 
makes  no  figure  in  council,  in  voting,  in  resolutions,  or  speeches, 
if  he  comes  forward  with  plans  and  views  for  the  good  of  the 
Academy  and  the  advancement  of  art,  he  is  immediately  set  upon 
as  a  visionary,  a  fanatic,  with  notions  hostile  to  the  interest  and 
credit  of  the  existing  members  of  the  society.  If  he  directs  tho 
ambition  of  the  scholars  to  the  study  of  History,  this  strikes  at 
once  at  the  emoluments  of  the  profession,  who  are  most  of  them 
(by  God's  will)  portrait-painters.  If  he  eulogises  the  Antique, 
and  speaks  highly  of  the  Old  Masters,  he  is  supposed  to  be  ac- 
tuated by  envy  to  living  painters  and  native  talent.  If,  again, 
he  insists  on  a  knowledge  of  anatomy  as  essential  to  correct 
drawing,  this  would  seem  to  imply  a  want  of  it  in  our  most  emi- 
nent designers.  Every  plan,  suggestion,  argument,  that  has  the 
general  purposes  and  principles  of  art  for  its  object,  is  thwarted, 
scouted,  ridiculed,  slandered,  as  bearing  a  malignant  aspect 
towards  the  profits  and  pretensions  of  the  great  mass  of  flourish- 
ing and  respectable  artists  in  the  country.  This  leads  to  irrita- 
tion and  ill-will  on  all  sides.  The  obstinacy  of  the  constituted 
authorities  keeps    pace  with  the  violence  and  extravagance  op. 


ON  CORPORATE  BODIES.  103 

posed  to  it ;  and  they  lay  all  the  blame  on  the  folly  and  mistakes 
they  have  themselves  occasioned  or  increased.  It  is  considered  as 
a  personal  quarrel,  not  a  public  question ;  by  which  means  the 
dignity  of  the  body  is  implicated  in  resenting  the  slips  and  in- 
advertencies of  its  members,  not  in  promoting  their  common  and 
declared  objects.     In  this  sort  of  wretched  tracasserie  the  Barrys 

and  H s  stand  no  chance  with  the  Catons,  the  Tubbs,  and 

the  F s.     Sir  Joshua  even  was  obliged  to  hold  himself  aloof 

from  them,  and  Fuseli  passes  as  a  kind  of  nondescript,  or  one  of 
his  own  grotesques.  The  air  of  an  Academy,  in  short,  is  not 
the  air  of  genius  and  immortality  ;  it  is  too  close  and  heated, 
and  impregnated  with  the  notions  of  the  common  sort.  A  man 
steeped  in  a  corrupt  atmosphere  of  this  description  is  no  longer 
open  to  the  genial  impulses  of  nature  and  truth,  nor  sees 
visions  of  ideal  beauty,  nor  dreams  of  antique  grace  and  gran- 
deur, nor  has  the  finest  works  of  art  continually  hovering  and 
floating  through  his  uplifted  fancy  ;  but  the  images  that  haunt  it 
are  rules  of  the  Academy,  charters,  inaugural  speeches,  resolu- 
tions passed  or  rescinded,  cards  of  invitation  to  a  council-meet- 
ing, or  the  annual  dinner,  prize-medals,  and  the  king's  diploma, 
constituting  him  a  gentleman  and  esquire.  He  "  wipes  out  all 
trivial,  fond  records  ;"  all  romantic  aspirations  ;  "  the  Raphael 
grace,  the  Guido  air  ;"  and  the  commands  of  the  Academy  alone 
"  must  live  within  the  book  and  volume  of  his  brain,  unmixed 
with  baser  matter."  It  may  be  doubted  whether  any  work  of 
lasting  reputation  and  universal  interest  can  spring  up  in  this 
soil,  or  ever  has  done  in  that  of  any  Academy.  The  last  ques- 
tion is  a  matter  of  fact  and  history,  not  of  mere  opinion  or  preju- 
dice ;  and  may  be  ascertained  as  such  accordingly.  The  mighty 
names  of  former  times  rose  before  the  existence  of  Academies ; 
and  the  three  greatest  painters,  undoubtedly,  that  this  country 
has  produced,  Reynolds,  Wilson,  and  Hogarth,  were  not  "  dan 
died  and  swaddled"  into  artists  in  any  institution  for  the  Fine 
Arts.  I  do  not  apprehend  that  the  names  of  Chantry  or  Wilkie 
(great  as  one,  and  considerable  as  the  other  of  them  is)  can  be 
made  use  of  in  any  way  to  impugn  the  jet  of  this  argument. 
We  may  find  a  considerable  improvement  in  some  of  our  artists, 
when  they  get  oul  of  the  vortex  for  a  time.     Sir  Thomas  Law. 


104  TABLE  TALK. 

rence  is  all  the  better  for  having  been  abstracted  for  a  year  or 

two  from  Somerset-House ;  and  Mr.  D ,  they  say,  has  beea 

doing  wonders  in  the  North.  When  will  he  return,  and  once 
more  "  bid  Britannia  rival  Greece  ?" — 

Mr.  Canning  somewhere  lays  it  down  as  a  rule,  that  corporate 
bodies  are  necessarily  correct  and  pure  in  their  conduct,  from 
the  knowledge  which  the  individuals  composing  them  have  of 
one  another,  and  the  jealous  vigilance  they  exercise  over  each 
other's  motives  and  characters ;  whereas  people  collected  into 
mobs  are  disorderly  and  unprincipled  from  being  utterly  unknown 
and  unaccountable  to  each  other.  This  is  a  curious  pass  of  wit. 
I  differ  with  him  in  both  parts  of  the  dilemma.  To  begin  with 
the  first,  and  to  handle  it  somewhat  cavalierly,  according  to  the 
model  before  us  :  we  know,  for  instance,  there  is  said  to  be  hon- 
our among  thieves,  but  very  little  honesty  towards  others.  Their 
honour  consists  in  the  division  of  the  booty,  not  in  the  mode  of 
acquiring  it :  they  do  not  (often)  betray  one  another*  but  they 
will  waylay  a  stranger,  or  knock  out  a  traveller's  brains :  they 
may  be  depended  on  in  giving  the  alarm  when  any  of  their  posts 
are  in  danger  of  being  surprised  ;  and  they  will  stand  together 
for  their  ill-gotten  gains  to  the  last  drop  of  their  blood.  Yet  they 
form  a  distinct  society,  and  are  strictly  responsible  for  their  be- 
haviour to  one  another  and  to  their  leader.  They  are  not  a 
mob,  but  a  gang,  completely  in  one  another's  power  and  secrets. 
Their  familiarity,  however,  with  the  proceedings  of  the  corps 
does  not  lead  them  to  expect  or  to  exact  from  it  a  very  high 
standard  of  moral  honesty  ;  that  is  out  of  the  question  ;  but  they 
are  sure  to  gain  the  good  opinion  of  their  fellows  by  committing 
all  sorts  of  depredations,  fraud,  and  violence  against  the  com- 
munity at  large.     So  (not  to  speak  it  profanely)  some  of  Mr. 

C 's  friends  may  be  very  respectable  people  in  their  way — 

"  all  honourable  men" — but  their  respectability  is  confined  within 
party-limits  ;  every  one  does  not  sympathize  in  the  integrity  of 
their  views ;  the  understanding  between  them  and  the  public  is 
not  well-defined  or  reciprocal.  Or,  suppose  a  gang  of  pick- 
pockets hustle  a  passenger  in  the  street,  and  the  mob  set  upon 
them,  and  proceeded  to  execute  summary  justice  upon  such  as 
they  can  lay  hands  on,  am  I  to  conclude  that  the  rogues  are  in 


ON  CORPORATE  BODIES.  105 

the  right,  because  theirs  is  a  system  of  well-organized  knavery, 
which  they  settled  in  the  morning,  with  their  eyes  one  upon  the 
other,  and  which  they  regularly  canvass  at  night,  with  ?  due  es- 
timate of  each  other's  motives,  character,  and  conduct  in  the 
business  ;  and  that  the  honest  men  are  in  the  wrong,  because 
they  are  a  casual  collection  of  unprejudiced,  disinterested  indi- 
viduals, taken  at  a  venture  from  the  mass  of  the  people,  acting 
without  concert  or  responsibility,  on  the  spur  of  the  occasion, 
and  giving  way  to  their  instantaneous  impulses  and  honest  anger  ? 
Mobs  in  fact,  then,  are  almost  always  right  in  their  feelings,  and 
often  in  their  judgments,  on  this  very  account — that  being  utterly 
unknown  to  and  disconnected  with  each  other,  they  have  no  point 
of  union  or  principle  of  co-operation  between  them,  but  the  natu- 
ral sense  of  justice  recognized  by  all  persons  in  common.  They 
appeal,  at  the  first  meeting,  not  to  certain  symbols  and  watch- 
words privately  agreed  upon,  like  Free-Masons,  but  to  the  max- 
ims and  instincts  proper  to  them  as  men.  They  have  no  other 
clue  to  guide  them  to  their  object  but  either  the  dictates  of  the 
heart,  or  the  universally  understood  sentiments  of  society,  neither 
of  which  are  likely  to  be  in  the  wrong.  The  flame,  which  bursts 
out  and  blazes  from  popular  sympathy,  is  made  of  honest,  but 
homely  materials.  It  is  not  kindled  by  sparks  of  wit  or  sophis- 
try, nor  damped  by  the  cold  calculations  of  self-interest.  The 
multitude  may  be  wantonly  set  on  by  others,  as  is  too  often  the 
case,  or  be  carried  too  far  in  the  impulse  of  rage  and  disappoint- 
ment ;  but  their  resentment,  when  they  are  left  to  themselves,  is 
almost  uniformly,  in  the  first  instance,  excited  by  some  evident 
abuse  and  wrong ;  and  the  excesses  into  which  they  run  arise 
from  that  very  want  of  foresight  and  regular  system  which  is  a 
pledge  of  the  uprightness  and  heartiness  of  their  intentions.  In 
short,  the  only  class  of  persons  to  whom  the  above  courtly  charge 
of  sinister  and  corrupt  motives  is  not  applicable,  is  that  body  of 
individuals  which  usually  goes  by  the  name  of  the  People  ! 


10-5  TABLE  TALK. 


ESSAY  XI. 

On  the  Knowledge  of  Character. 

h  Is  astonishing,  with  all  our  opportunities  and  practice,  how 
little  we  know  of  this  subject.  For  myself,  I  feel  that  the  more 
I  learn,  the  less  I  understand  it. 

I  remember,  several  years  ago,  a  conversation  in  the  Diligence 
coming  from  Paris,  in  which,  on  its  being  mentioned  that  a  man 
had  married  his  wife  after  thirteen  years'  courtship,  a  fellow- 
countryman  of  mine  observed,  that  "  then,  at  least,  he  would  be 
acquainted  with  her  character ;"  when  a  Monsieur  P ,  in- 
ventor and  proprietor  of  the  Invisible  Girl,  made  answer,  "  No, 
not  at  all  ;  for  that  the  very  next  day  she  might  turn  out  the  very 
reverse  of  the  character  that  she  had  appeared  in  during  all  the 
preceding  time."*  I  could  not  help  admiring  the  superior  saga- 
city of  the  French  juggler,  and  it  struck  me  then  that  we  could 
never  be  sure  when  we  had  got  at  the  bottom  of  this  riddle. 

There  are  various  ways  of  getting  at  a  knowledge  of  charac- 
ter— by  looks,  words,  actions.  The  first  of  these,  which  seems 
the  most  superficial,  is  perhaps  the  safest,  and  least  liable  to  de- 
ceive :  nay,  it  is  that  which  mankind,  in  spite  of  their  pretending 
to  the  contrary,  are  generally  governed  by.  Professions  pass 
for  nothing,  and  actions  may  be  counterfeited  :  but  a  man  cannot 
help  his  looks.  "  Speech,"  said  a  celebrated  wit,  "  was  given  to 
man  to  conceal  his  thoughts."  Yet  I  do  not  know  that  the  great- 
est hypocrites  are  the  least  silent.  The  mouth  of  Cromwell  is 
pursed  up  in  the  portraits  of  him,  as  if  he  was  afraid  to  trust 
himself  with  words.  Lord  Chesterfield  advises  us,  if  we  wish  to 
know  the  real  sentiments  of  the  person  we  are  conversing  with, 
to  look  in  his  face,  for  he  can  more  easily  command  his  words 

*  "  It  is  not  a  yeai  or  two  shows  us  a  man  " — Emilia,  in  Othello. 


ON  THE  KNOWLEDGE  OF  CHARACTER.  107 

than  his  features.  A  man's  whole  life  may  be  a  lie  to  himself 
and  others :  and  yet  a  picture  painted  of  him  by  a  great  artist 
would  probably  stamp  his  true  character  on  the  canvas,  and 
betray  the  secret  to  posterity.  Men's  opinions  were  divided,  in 
their  life-time,  about  such  prominent  personages  as  Charles  V. 
and  Ignatius  Loyola,  partly,  no  doubt,  from  passion  and  interest, 
but  partly  from  contradictory  evidence  in  their  ostensible  con- 
duct :  the  spectator,  who  has  ever  seen  their  pictures  by  Titian, 
judges  of  them  at  once,  and  truly.  I  had  rather  leave  a  good 
portrait  of  myself  behind  me  than  have  a  fine  epitaph.  The 
face,  for  the  most  part,  tells  what  we  have  thought  and  felt — the 
rest  is  nothing.  ,  I  have  a  higher  idea  of  Donne  from  a  rude, 
half-effaced  outline  of  him  prefixed  to  his  poems,  than  from  any 
thing  he  ever  wrote.  Caesar's  Commentaries  would  not  have 
redeemed  him  in  my  opinion,  if  the  bust  of  him  had  resembled 

the  Duke  of  W .     My  old  friend,  Fawcett,  used  to  say, 

that  if  Sir  Isaac  Newton  himself  had  lisped,  he  could  not  have 
thought  any  thing  of  him.  So  I  cannot  persuade  myself  that 
any  one  is  a  great  man,  who  looks  like  a  blockhead.  In  this  I 
may  be  wrong. 

First  impressions  are  often  the  truest,  as  we  find  (not  unfre- 
quently)  to  our  cost,  when  we  have  been  wheedled  out  of  them 
by  plausible  professions  or  studied  actions.  A  man's  look  is  the 
work  of  years :  it  is  stamped  on  his  countenance  by  the  events 
of  his  whole  life,  nay  more,  by  the  hand  of  nature,  and  it  is  not 
to  be  got  rid  of  easily.  There  is,  as  it  has  been  remarked  re- 
peatedly, something  in  a  person's  appearance  at  first  sight  which 
we  do  not  like,  and  that  gives  us  an  odd  twinge,  but  which  is 
overlooked  in  a  multiplicity  of  other  circumstances,  till  the  mask 
is  taken  off;  and  we  see  this  lurking  character  verified  in  the 
plainest  manner  in  the  sequel.  We  are  struck  at  first,  and  b\ 
chance,  with  what  is  peculiar  and  characteristic ;  also  with  per- 
manent trails  and  general  effect :  these  afterwards  go  off*  in  a 
set  of  unmeaning,  common-place  details.  This  sort  of  prima 
facie  evidence,  then,  shows  what  a  man  is,  better  than  what  he 
6ays  or  does  ;  for  it  shows  us  the  habit  of  his  mind,  which  is  the 
same  under  all  circumstances  and  disguises.  You  will  say,  on 
the  other  hand,  that  there  is  no  judging  by  appearances,  as  a 


108  TABLE  TALK. 


general  rule.  No  one,  for  instance,  would  take  such  a  person 
for  a  very  clever  man  without  knowing  who  he  was.  Then,  ten 
to  one,  he  is  not :  he  may  have  got  the  reputation,  but  it  is  a  mis- 
take.    You  say,  there  is  Mr. ,  undoubtedly  a  person  of 

great  genius :  yet,  except  when  excited  by  something  extraordi- 
nary, he  seems  half  dead.  He  has  wit  at  will,  yet  wants  life 
and  spirit.  He  is  capable  of  the  most  generous  acts,  yet  mean- 
ness seems  to  cling  to  every  motion.  He  looks  like  a  poor  crea- 
ture— and  in  truth  he  is  one  !  The  first  impression  he  gives  you 
of  him  answers  nearly  to  the  feeling  he  has  of  his  personal  iden- 
tity j  and  this  image  of  himself,  rising  from  his  thoughts,  and 
shrouding  his  faculties,  is  that  which  sits  with  him  in  the  house, 
walks  out  with  him  into  the  street,  and  haunts  his  bed-side. 
The  best  part  of  his  existence  is  dull,  cloudy,  leaden :  the 
flashes  of  light  that  proceed  from  it,  or  streak  it  here  and  there, 
may  dazzle  others,  but  do  not  deceive  himself.  Modesty  is  the 
lowest  of  the  virtues,  and  is  a  real  confession  of  the  deficiency 
it  indicates.  He  who  undervalues  himself,  is  justly  undervalued 
by  others.  Whatever  good  properties  he  may  possess  are,  in 
fact,  neutralized  by  a  "  cold  rheum"  running  through  his  veins, 
and  taking  away  the  zest  of  his  pretensions,  the  pith  and  marrow 
of  his  performances.  What  is  it  to  me  that  I  can  write  these 
Table-talks  ?  It  is  true  I  can,  by  a  reluctant  effort,  rake  up  a 
parcel  of  half- forgotten  observations,  but  they  do  not  float  on  the 
surface  of  my  mind,  nor  stir  it  with  any  sense  of  pleasure,  nor 
even  of  pride.  Others  have  more  property  in  them  than  I  have  : 
they  may  reap  the  benefit,  I  have  only  had  the  pain.  Other- 
wise, they  are  to  me  as  if  they  had  never  existed  :  nor  should  I 
know  that  I  had  ever  thought  at  all,  but  that  I  am  reminded  of  it 
by  the  strangeness  of  my  appearance,  and  my  unfitness  for  every 

thing   else.     Look   in  C 's  face  while  he   is  talking.     His 

words  are  such  as  might  "  create  a  soul  under  the  ribs  of  death." 
His  face  is  a  blank.  Which  are  we  to  consider  as  the  true  index 
of  his  mind?  Pain,  languor,  shadowy  remembrances  are  the 
uneasy  inmates  there  :  his  lips  move  mechanically  ! 

There  are  people  whom  we  do  not  like,  though  we  may  have 
known  them  long,  and  have  no  fault  to  find  with  them,  except 
that  their  appearance  is  so  much  against  them.     That  is  not  all, 


ON  THE  KNOWLEDGE  OP  CHARACTER.  109 

if  we  could  find  it  out.  There  is,  generally,  a  reason  for  this 
prejudice  ;  for  nature  is  true  to  itself.  They  may  be  very  good 
sort  of  people,  too,  in  their  way,  but  still  something  is  the  matter. 
There  is  a  coldness,  a  selfishness,  a  levity,  an  insincerity,  which 
we  cannot  fix  upon  any  particular  phrase  or  action,  but  we  see 
it  in  their  whole  persons  and  deportment.  One  reason  that  we 
do  not  see  it  in  any  other  way  may  be,  that  they  are  all  the  time 
trying  to  conceal  this  defect  by  every  means  in  their  power. 
There  is,  luckily,  a  sort  of  second-sight  in  morals :  we  discern 
the  lurking  indications  of  temper  and  habit  a  long  while  before 
their  palpable  effects  appear.  I  once  used  to  meet  with  a  person 
at  an  ordinary,  a  very  civil,  good-looking  man  in  other  respects, 
but  with  an  odd  look  about  his  eyes,  which  I  could  not  explain, 
as  if  he  saw  you  under  their  fringed  lids,  and  you  could  not  see 
him  again  :  this  man  was  a  common  sharper.  The  greatest  hypo- 
crite I  ever  knew  was  a  little,  demure,  pretty,  modest-looking 
girl,  with  eyes  timidly  cast  upon  the  ground,  and  an  air  soft  as 
enchantment ;  the  only  circumstance  that  could  lead  to  a  sus- 
picion of  her  true  character  was  a  cold,  sullen,  watery,  glazed 
look  about  the  eyes,  which  she  bent  on  vacancy,  as  if  determined 
to  avoid  all  explanation  with  yours.  I  might  have  spied  in  their 
glittering,  motionless  surface,  the  rocks  and  quicksands  that 
awaited  me  below !  We  do  not  feel  quite  at  ease  in  the  com- 
pany or  friendship  of  those  who  have  any  natural  obliquity  or 
imperfection  of  person.  The  reason  is,  they  are  not  on  the  best 
terms  with  themselves,  and  are  sometimes  apt  to  play  off  on 
others  the  tricks  that  nature  has  played  them.  This,  however, 
is  a  remark  that,  perhaps,  ought  not  to  have  been  made.  I 
know  a  person  to  whom  it  has  been  objected  as  a  disqualification 
for  friendship,  that  he  never  shakes  you  cordially  by  the  hand. 
1  own  this  is  a  damper  to  sanguine  and  florid  temperaments,  who 
abound  in  these  practical  demonstrations  and  "  compliments  ex- 
tern." The  same  person,  who  testifies  the  least  pleasure  at  meet- 
ing you,  is  the  last  to  quit  his  seat  in  your  company,  grapples 
with  a  subject  in  conversation  right  earnestly,  and  is,  I  take  it, 
backward  to  give  up  a  cause  or  a  friend.  Cold  and  distant  in 
appearance,  he  piques  himself  on  being  the  king  of  good  haters, 
and  a  no  less  zealous  partisan.     The  most  phlegmatic  constitu- 


110  TABLE  TALK. 


tions  often  contain  the  most  inflammable  spirits — as  fire,  is  struck 
from  the  hardest  flints. 

And  this  is  another  reason  that  makes  it  difficult  to  judge  of 
character.  Extremes  meet ;  and  qualities  display  themselves  by 
the  most  contradictory  appearances.  Any  inclination,  in  conse- 
quence of  being  generally  suppressed,  vents  itself  the  more  vio- 
lently when  an  opportunity  presents  itself:  the  greatest  grossness 
sometimes  accompanies  the  greatest  refinement,  as  a  natural  re- 
lief, one  to  the  other ;  and  we  find  the  most  reserved  and  indif- 
ferent tempers  at  the  beginning  of  an  entertainment,  or  an  ac- 
quaintance, turn  out  the  most  communicative  and  cordial  at  the 
end  of  it.  Some  spirits  exhaust  themselves  at  first :  others  gain 
strength  by  progression.  Some  minds  have  a  greater  facility  of 
throwing  off  impressions,  and  are,  as  it  were,  more  transparent  or 
porous  than  others.  Thus  the  French  present  a  marked  contrast 
to  the  English  in  this  respect.  A  Frenchman  addresses  you  at 
once  with  a  sort  of  lively  indifference  :  an  Englishman  is  more 
on  his  guard,  feels  his  way,  and  is  either  exceedingly  silent,  or 
lets  you  into  his  whole  confidence,  which  he  cannot  so  well  im- 
part to  an  entire  stranger.  Again,  a  Frenchman  is  naturally 
humane  :  an  Englishman  is,  I  should  say,  only  friendly  by  habit. 
His  virtues  and  his  vices  cost  him  more  than  they  do  his  more 
gay  and  volatile  neighbours.  An  Englishman  is  said  to  speak 
his  mind  more  plainly  than  others  : — yes,  if  it  will  give  you  pain 
to  hear  it.  He  does  not  care  whom  he  offends  by  his  discourse : 
a  foreigner  generally  strives  to  oblige  in  what  he  says.  The 
French  are  accused  of  promising  more  than  they  perform.  That 
may  be,  and  yet  they  may  perform  as  many  good-natured  acts 
as  the  English,  if  the  latter  are  as  averse  to  perform  as  they  are 
to  promise.  Even  the  professions  of  the  French  may  be  sincere 
at  the  time,  or  arise  out  of  the  impulse  of  the  moment ;  though 
their  desire  to  serve  you  may  be  neither  very  violent  nor  very 
lasting.  I  cannot  think,  notwithstanding,  that  the  French  are  no 
a  serious  people  ;  nay,  that  they  are  not  a  more  reflecting  people 
than  the  common  run  of  the  English.  Let  those  who  think  them 
merely  light  and  mercurial,  explain  that  enigma,  their  everlast. 
ing  prosing  tragedy.  The  English  are  considered  as  compara- 
tively a  slow,  plodding  people.     If  the  French  are  quicker,  they 


ON  THE  KNOWLEDGE  OF  CHARACTER.  Ml 

are  also  more  plodding.  See,  for  example,  how  highly  finished 
and  elaborate  their  works  of  art  are  !  How  systematic  and  cor- 
rect they  aim  at  being  in  all  their  productions  of  a  graver  cast ! 
"  If  the  French  have  a  fault,"  as  Yorick  said,  "  it  is  that  they  are 
too  grave."  With  wit,  sense,  cheerfulness,  patience,  good-nature, 
and  refinement  of  manners,  all  they  want  is  imagination  and  stur- 
diness  of  moral  principle  !  Such  are  some  of  the  contradictions 
in  the  character  of  the  two  nations,  and  so  little  does  the  charac- 
ter of  either  appear  to  have  been  understood  !  Nothing  can  be 
more  ridiculous,  indeed,  than  the  way  in  which  we  exaggerate 
each  other's  vices  and  extenuate  our  own.  The  whole  is  an 
affair  of  prejudice  on  one  side  of  the  question,  and  of  partiality 
on  the  other.  Travellers  who  set  out  to  carry  back  a  true  report 
of  the  case  appear  to  lose  not  only  the  use  of  their  understand- 
ings, but  of  their  senses,  the  instant  they  set  foot  in  a  foreign 
land.  The  commonest  facts  and  appearances  are  distorted  and 
discoloured.  They  go  abroad  with  certain  preconceived  notions 
on  the  subject,  and  they  make  every  thing  answer,  in  reason's 
spite,  to  their  favourite  theory.  In  addition  to  the  difficulty  of 
explaining  customs  and  manners  foreign  to  our  own,  there  are 
all  the  obstacles  of  wilful  prepossession  thrown  in  the  way.  It  is 
not,  therefore,  much  to  be  wondered  at  that  nations  have  arrived 
at  so  little  knowledge  of  one  another's  characters ;  and  that, 
where  the  object  has  been  to  widen  the  breach  between  them, 
any  slight  differences  that  occur  are  easily  blown  into  a  blaze  of 
fury  by  repeated  misrepresentations,  and  all  the  exaggerations 
that  malice  or  folly  can  invent ! 

This  ignorance  of  character  is  not  confined  to  foreign  nations : 
we  are  ignorant  of  that  of  our  own  countrymen  in  a  class  a  little 
below  or  above  ourselves.  We  can  hardly  pretend  to  pronounce 
magisterially  on  the  good  or  bad  qualities  of  strangers ;  and,  at 
.he  same  time,  we  are  ignorant  of  those  of  our  friends,  of  our 
kindred,  and  of  our  own.  We  are  in  all  these  cases  either  too 
near  or  too  far  off  the  object,  to  judge  of  it  properly. 

Persons,  for  instance,  in  a  higher  or  middle  rank  of  life,  know 
little  or  nothing  of  the  characters  of  those  below  them,  as  ser- 
vants, country-people,  &c.  1  would  lay  it  down  in  the  first  place 
as  a  general  rule  on  this  subject,  that  all  uneducated  people  are 


115a  TABLE  TALK. 


hypocrites.  Their  sole  business  is  to  deceive.  They  imagine 
themselves  in  a  state  of  hostility  with  others,  and  stratagems  are 
fair  in  war.  The  inmates  of  the  kitchen  and  the  parlour  are  al- 
ways (as  far  as  respects  their  feelings  and  intentions  towards 
each  other)  in  Hobbes's  "  state  of  nature."  Servants  and  others 
in  that  line  of  life  have  nothing  to  exercise  their  spare  talents  for 
invention-  upon  but  those  about  them.  Their  superfluous  elec- 
trical particles  of  wit  and  fancy  are  not  carried  off  by  those  es- 
tablished and  fashionable  conductors,  novels  and  romances. 
Their  faculties  are  not  buried  in  books,  but  all  alive  and  stirring, 
erect  and  bristling  like  a  cat's  back.  Their  coarse  conversation 
sparkles  with  "  wild  wit,  invention  ever  new."  Their  betters  try 
all  they  can  to  set  themselves  up  above  them,  and  they  try  all 
they  can  to  pull  them  down  to  their  own  level.  They  do  this 
by  getting  up  a  little  comic  interlude,  a  daily,  domestic,  homely 
drama  out  of  the  odds  and  ends  of  the  family-failings,  of  which 
there  is  in  general  a  pretty  plentiful  supply,  or  make  up  the  de- 
ficiency of  materials  out  of  their  own  heads.  They  turn  the 
qualities  of  their  masters  and  mistresses  inside  out,  and  any  real 
kindness  or  condescension  only  sets  them  the  more  against  you. 
They  are  not  to  be  taken  in  in  that  w#y — they  will  not  be  baulk- 
ed in  the  spite  they  have  to  you.  They  only  set  to  work  with 
redoubled  alacrity,  to  lessen  the  favour  or  to  blacken  your  cha- 
racter. They  feel  themselves  like  a  degraded  caste,  and  cannot 
understand  how  the  obligations  can  be  all  on  one  side,  and  the 
advantages  all  on  the  other.  You  cannot  come  to  equal  terms 
with  them — they  reject  all  such  overtures  as  insidious  and  hol- 
low— nor  can  you  ever  calculate  upon  their  gratitude  or  good- 
will, any  more  than  if  they  were  so  many  strolling  Gipsies  or 
wild  Indians.  They  have  no  fellow-feeling,  they  keep  no  faith 
with  the  more  privileged  classes.  They  are  in  your  power,  and 
they  endeavour  to  be  even  with  you  by  trick  and  cunning,  by  ly- 
ing and  chicanery.  In  this  they  have  nothing  to  restrain  them. 
Their  whole  life  is  a  succession  of  shifts,  excuses,  and  expedi- 
ents. The  love  of  truth  is  a  principle  with  those  only  who  have 
made  it  their  study,  who  have  applied  themselves  to  the  pursuit 
of  some  art  or  science,  where  the  intellect  is  severely  tasked,  and 
learns  by  habit  to  take  a  pride  in,  and  to  set  a  just  value  on  the 


ON  THE  KNOWLEDGE  OB  CHARACTER.  113 


correctness  of  its  conclusions.  To  have  a  disinterested  regard 
for  truth,  the  mind  must  have  contemplated  it  in  abstract  and 
remote  questions ;  whereas  the  ignorant  and  vulgar  are  only 
conversant  with  those  things  in  which  their  own  interest  is 
concerned.  All  their  notions  are  local,  personal,  and  conse- 
quently gross  and  selfish.  They  say  whatever  comes  upper- 
most— turn  whatever  happens  to  their  own  account — and  invent 
any  story,  or  give  any  answer  that  suits  their  purpose.  Instead 
of  being  bigoted  to  general  principles,  they  trump  up  any  lie  for 
the  occasion,. and  the  more  of  a  thumper  it  is,  the  better  they  like 
it ;  the  more  unlooked-for  it  is,  why  so  much  the  more  of  a  God- 
send !  They  have  no  conscience  about  the  matter  ;  and  if  you 
find  them  out  in  any  of  their  manoeuvres,  are  not  ashamed  of 
themselves,  but  angry  with  you.  If  you  remonstrate  with  them, 
they  laugh  in  your  face.  The  only  hold  you  have  of  them  is 
their  interest — you  can  but  dismiss  them  from  your  employment ; 
and  service  is  no  inheritance.  If  they  affect  any  thing  like  decen, 
remorse,  and  hope  you  will  pass  it  over,  all  the  while  they  are 
probably  trying  to  recover  the  wind  of  you.  Persons  of  libera . 
knowledge  or  sentiments  have  no  kind  of  chance  in  this  sort  of 
mixed  intercourse  with  these  barbarians  in  civilized  life.  You 
cannot  tell,  by  any  signs  or  principles,  what  is  passing  in  their 
minds.  There  is  no  common  point  of  view  between  you.  You 
have  not  the  same  topics  to  refer  to,  the  same  language  to  ex- 
press yourself.  Your  interests,  your  feelings  are  quite  distinct. 
You  take  certain  things  for  granted  as  rules  of  action :  they  take 
nothing  for  granted  but  their  own  ends,  pick  up  all  their  know- 
ledge out  of  their  own  occasions,  are  on  the  watch  only  for  what 
they  can  catch — are 

"  Subtle  as  the  fox  for  prey  : 
Like  warlike  as  the  wolf,  for  what  they  eat." 

They  have  indeed  a  regard  to  their  character,  as  this  last  may 
affect  their  livelihood  or  advancement,  none  as  it  is  connected 
with  a  sense  of  propriety ;  and  this  sets  their  mother- wit  and 
native  talents  at  work  upon  a  double  file  of  expedients,  to  bilk 
their  consciences,  and  save  their  reputation.  In  short,  you 
never  know  where  to  have  them,  any  more  than  if  they  were  a 

6 


114  TABLE  TALK. 


different  species  of  animals ;  and  in  trusting  to  them,  you  are 
sure  to  be  betrayed  and  over-reached.  You  have  other  things 
to  mind,  they  are  thinking  only  of  you,  and  how  to  turn  you  to 
advantage.  Give  and  take  is  no  maxim  here.  You  can  build 
nothing  on  youi  own  moderation  or  on  their  false  delicacy. 
After  a  familiar  conversation  with  a  waiter  at  a  tavern, 
you  overhear  him  calling  you  by  some  provoking  nick- 
name. If  you  make  a  present  to  the  daughter  of  the  house 
where  you  lodge,  the  mother  is  sure  to  recollect  some  addition  to 
her  bill.  It  is  a  running  fight.  In  fact,  there  is  a  principle  in 
human  nature  not  willingly  to  endure  the  idea  of  a  superior,  a 
sour  Jacobinical  disposition  to  wipe  out  the  score  of  obligation,  or 
efface  the  tinsel  of  external  advantages — and  where  others  have 
the  opportunity  of  coming  in  contact  with  us,  they  generally  find 
the  means  to  establish  a  sufficiently  marked  degree  of  degrading 
equality.  No  man  is  a  hero  to  his  valet-de-chambre,  is  an  old 
maxim.  A  new  illustration  of  this  principle  occurred  the  other 
day.  While  Mrs.  Siddons  was  giving  her  readings  of  Shakes- 
pear  to  a  brilliant  and  admiring  drawing-room,  one  of  the  servants 
in  the  hall  below  was  saying,  "  What,  I  find  the  old  lady  is 
making  as  much  noise  as  ever  !"  So  little  is  there  in  common 
between  the  different  classes  of  society,  and  so  impossible  is  it 
ever  to  reconcile  the  diversities  of  custom  and  knowledge  which 
separate  them. 

Women,  according  to  Mrs.  Peachum,  are  "bitter bad  judges" 
of  the  characters  of  men  ;  and  men  are  not  much  better  of  theirs, 
if  we  can  form  any  guess  from  their  choice  in  marriage.  Love 
is  proverbially  blind.  The  whole  is  an  affair  of  whim  and  fancy. 
Certain  it  is,  that  the  greatest  favourites  with  the  other  sex  are 
not  those  who  are  most  liked  or  respected  among  their  own. 
I  never  knew  but  one  clever  man  who  was  what  is  called  a 
lady's  man  ;  and  he  (unfortunately  for  the  argument)  happened 
to  be  a  considerable  coxcomb.  It  was  by  this  irresistible  quality, 
and  not  by  the  force  of  his  genius,  that  he  vanquished.  Women 
*eem  to  doubt  their  own  judgments  in  love,  and  to  take  tho 
opinion  which  a  man  entertains  of  his  own  prowess  and  accom- 
plishments for  granted.  The  wives  of  poets  are  (for  the  most 
part)  mere  pieces  of  furniture  in  the  room.     If  you  speak  to 


ON  THE  KNOWLEDGE  OF  "CHARACTER.  115 


them  of  their  husbands'  talents  or  reputation  in  the  world,  it  is  aa 
if  you  made  mention  of  some  office  that  they  held.  It  can 
hardly  be  otherwise,  when  the  instant  any  subject  is  started  or 
conversation  arises,  in  which  men  take  an  interest,  or  try  one 
another's  strength,  the  women  leave  the  room,  or  attend  to  some- 
thing else.  The  qualities  then  in  which  men  are  ambitious  to 
excel,  and  which  ensure  the  applause  of  the  world,  eloquence, 
genius,  learning,  integrity,  are  not  those  which  gain  the  favour 
of  the  fair.  I  must  not  deny,  however,  that  wit  and  courage 
have  this  effect.  Neither  is  youth  or  beauty  the  sole  passport  to 
their  affections. 

"  The  way  of  woman's  will  is  hard  to  know, 
Harder  to  hit." 

Yet  there  is  some  clue  to  this  mystery,  some  determining  cause; 
for  we  find  that  the  same  men  are  universal  favourites  with 
women,  as  others  are  uniformly  disliked  by  them.  Is  not  the 
load-stone  that  attracts  so  powerfully,  and  in  all  circumstances, 
a  strong  and  undisguised  bias  towards  them,  a  marked  attention, 
a  conscious  preference  of  them  to  every  other  passing  object  or 
topic  ?  I  am  not  sure,  but  I  incline  to  think  so.  The  successful 
lover  is  the  cavalier  servente  of  all  nations.  The  man  of  gallantry 
behaves  as  if  he  had  made  an  assignation  with  every  woman  he 
addresses.  An  argument  immediately  draws  off  the  scholar's 
attention  from  the  prettiest  women  in  the  room.  He  accordingly 
succeeds  better  in  argument — than  in  love  ! — I  do  not  think  that 
what  is  called  Love  at  first  sight  is  so  great  an  absurdity  as  it  is 
sometimes  imagined  to  be.  We  generally  make  up  our  minds 
beforehand  to  the  sort  of  person  we  should  like,  grave  or  gay, 
black,  brown,  or  fair ;  with  golden  tresses  or  with  raven  locks  ; 
— and  when  we  meet  with  a  complete  example  of  the  qualities 
we  admire,  the  bargain  is  soon  struck.  We  have  never  seen 
any  thing  to  come  up  to  our  newly  discovered  Goddess  before, 
but  she  is  what  we  have  been  all  our  lives  looking  for.  The 
idol  we  fall  down  and  worship  is  an  image  familiar  to  our  minds. 
iT.  has  been  present  to  our  waking  thoughts,  it  has  haunted  us  in 
our  dreams,  like  some  fairy  vision.  Oh  !  thou,  who,  the  first 
time  I  ever   beheld  thee,  didst  draw  my  soul  into  the  circle  of 


116  TABLE  TALK. 


thy  heavenly  looks.,  and  wave  enchantment  round  me,  do  not 
think  thy  conquest  ess  complete  because  it  was  instantaneous ; 
for  in  that  gentle  form  (as  if  another  Imogen  had  entered)  I  saw 
all  that  I  had  ever  loved  of  female  grace,  modesty,  and  sweet- 
ness ! 

I  cannot  say  much  of  friendship  as  giving  an  insight  into 
character,  because  it  is  often  founded  on  mutual  infirmities  and 
prejudices.  Friendships  are  frequently  taken  up  on  some  sudden 
sympathy,  and  we  see  only  as  much  as  we  please  of  one  another's 
characters  afterwards.  Intimate  friends  are  not  fair  witnesses  to 
character,  any  more  than  professed  enemies.  They  cool,  indeed, 
in  time — part,  and  retain  only  a  rankling  grudge  at  past  errors 
and  oversights.  Their  testimony  in  the  latter  case  is  not  quite 
free  from  suspicion. 

One  would  think  that  near  relations,  who  live  constantly 
together,  and  always  have  done  so,  must  be  pretty  well  ac- 
quainted with  one  another's  character.  They  are  nearly  in 
the  dark  about  it.  Familiarity  confounds  all  traits  of  dis- 
tinction :  interest  and  prejudice  take  away  the  power  of  judg- 
ing. We  have  no  opinion  on  the  subject,  any  more  than  of 
one  another's  faces.  The  Penates,  the  household  Gods,  are 
veiled.  We  do  not  see  the  features  of  those  we  love,  nor  do 
we  clearly  discern  their  virtues  or  their  vices.  We  take  them 
as  they  are  found  in  the  lump  : — by  weight,  and  not  by  mea- 
sure. We  know  all  about  the  individuals,  their  sentiments, 
history,  manners,  words,  actions,  every  thing  :  but  we  know  all 
these  too  much  as  facts,  as  inveterate,  habitual  impressions,  as 
clothed  with  too  many  associations,  as  sanctified  with  too  many 
affections,  as  woven  too  much  into  the  web  of  our  hearts,  to  be 
able  to  pick  out  the  different  threads,  to  cast  up  the  items  of  the 
debtor  and  creditor  account,  or  to  refer  them  to  any  general  stan- 
dard of  right  and  wrong.  Our  impressions  with  respect  to  them 
are  too  strong,  too  real,  too  much  sui  generis,  to  be  capable  of  a 
comparison  with  any  thing  but  themselves.  We  hardly  inquire 
whether  those  for  whom  we  are  thus  interested,  and  to  whom  we 
are  thus  knit,  are  better  or  worse  than  others — the  question  is  a 
kind  of  profanation — all  we  know  is,  they  are  more  to  us  than 
any  one  else  can  be.     Our  sentiments  of  this  kind  are  rooted 


ON  THE  KNOWLEDGE  OF  CHARACTER.  117 

and  grow  in  us,  and  we  cannot  eradicate  them  by  voluntary 
means.  Besides,  our  judgments  are  bespoke,  our  interests  take 
part  with  our  blood,  If  any  doubt  arises,  if  the  veil  of  our  im. 
plicit  confidence  is  drawn  aside  by  any  accident  for  a  moment, 
the  shock  is  too  great,  like  that  of  a  dislocated  limb,  and  we  re- 
coil on  our  habitual  impressions  again.  Let  not  that  veil  eve? 
be  rent  entirely  asunder,  so  that  those  images  may  be  left  bare 
of  reverential  awe,  and  lose  their  religion  :  for  nothing  can  evei 
support  the  desolation  of  the  heart  afterwards  ! 

The  greatest  misfortune  that  can  happen  among  relations  is  a 
different  way  of  bringing  up,  so  as  to  set  one  another's  opinions 
and  characters  in  an  entirely  new  point  of  view.  This  often  lets 
in  an  unwelcome  day-light  on  the  subject,  and  breeds  schisms, 
coldness,  and  incurable  heart-burnings  in  families.  I  have  some- 
times thought  whether  the  progress  of  society  and  march  of  know- 
ledge does  not  do  more  harm  in  this  respect,  by  loosening  the 
ties  of  domestic  attachment,  and  preventing  those  who  are  most 
interested  in,  and  anxious  to  think  well  of  one  another,  from  feel- 
ing a  cordial  sympathy  and  approbation  of  each  other's  senti- 
ments, manners,  views,  &c.  than  it  does  good  by  any  real  advan- 
tage to  the  community  at  large.  The  son,  for  instance,  is  brought 
up  to  the  church,  and  nothing  can  exceed  the  pride  and  pleasure 
the  father  takes  in  him,  while  all  goes  on  well  in  this  favourite 
direction.  His  notions  change,  and  he  imbibes  a  taste  for  the 
Fine  Arts.  From  this  moment  there  is  an  end  of  any  thing  like 
the  same  unreserved  communication  between  them.  The  y*mng 
man  may  talk  with  enthusiasm  of  his  "  Rembrandts,  Correggios, 
and  stuff:"  it  is  all  Hebrew  to  the  elder  ;  and  whatever  satisfac- 
tion he  may  feel  in  hearing  of  his  son's  progress,  or  good  wishes 
for  his  success,  he  is  never  reconciled  to  the  new  pursuit,  he  still 
hankers  after  the  first  object  that  he  had  set  his  mind  upon. 
Again,  the  grandfather  is  a  Calvinist,  who  never  gets  the  better 
of  his  disappointment  at  his  son's  going  over  to  the  Unitarian 
side  of  the  question.  The  matter  rests  here,  till  the  grandson, 
some  years  after,  in  the  fashion  of  the  day  and  "  infinite  agita- 
tion of  men's  wit,"  comes  to  doubt  certain  points  in  the  creed  in 
which  he  has  been  brought  up,  and  the  affair  is  all  abroad  again 
Here  are  three  generations  made  uncomfortable,  and  in  a  manner 


t»  TABLE  TALK. 


set  at  variance,  by  a  veering  point  of  theology,  and  the  officious 
meddling  of  biblical  critics !  Nothing,  on  the  other  hand,  can 
be  more  wretched  or  common  than  that  upstart  pride  and  inso- 
lent good  fortune  which  is  ashamed  of  its  origin  ;  nor  are  there 
many  things  more  awkward  than  the  situation  of  rich  and  poor 
relations.  Happy,  much  happier,  are  those  tribes  and  people 
who  are  confined  to  the  same  caste  and  way  of  life  from  sire  to 
son,  where  prejudices  are  transmitted  like  instincts,  and  where 
the  same  unvarying  standard  of  opinion  and  refinement  blend 
countless  generations  in  its  improgressive,  everlasting  mould  ! 

Not  only  is  there  a  wilful  and  habitual  blindness  in  near  kin- 
dred to  each  other's  defects,  but  an  incapacity  to  judge  from  the 
quantity  of  materials,  from  the  contradictoriness  of  the  evidence. 
The  chain  of  particulars  is  too  long  and  massy  for  us  to  lift  it  or 
put  it  into  the  most  approved  ethical  scales.  The  concrete  re- 
sult does  not  answer  to  any  abstract  theory,  to  any  logical  defini- 
tion. There  is  black,  and  white,  and  grey,  square  and  round — 
there  are  too  many  anomalies,  too  many  redeeming  points  in 
poor  human  nature,  such  as  it  actually  is,  for  us  to  arrive  at  a 
smart,  summary  decision  on  it.  We  know  too  much  to  come  to 
any  hasty  or  partial  conclusion.  We  do  not  pronounce  upon 
the  present  act,  because  a  hundred  others  rise  up  to  contradict 
it.  We  suspend  our  judgments  altogether,  because  in  effect  one 
thing  unconsciously  balances  another ;  and  perhaps  this  obsti- 
nate, pertinacious  indecision  would  be  the  truest  philosophy  in 
othej*  cases,  where  we  dispose  of  the  question  of  character  easily, 
because  we  have  only  the  smallest  part  of  the  evidence  to  decide 
upon.  Real  character  is  not  one  thing,  but  a  thousand  things ; 
actual  qualities  do  not  conform  to  any  factitious  standard  in  the 
mind,  but  rest  upon  their  own  truth  and  nature.  The  dull  stu- 
por under  which  we  labour  in  respect  of  those  whom  we  have 
the  greatest  opportunities  of  inspecting  nearly,  we  should  do  well 
to  imitate,  before  we  give  extreme  and  uncharitable  verdicts 
against  those  whom  we  only  see  in  passing,  or  at  a  distance.  If 
we  knew  them  better,  we  should  be  disposed  to  say  less  about 
them. 

In  the  truth  of  things,  there  are  none  utterly  worthless,  none 
without  some  drawback  on  their  pretensions,  or  some  alloy  of 


ON  THE  KNOWLEDGE  OF  CHARACTER.  119 

imperfection.  It  has  been  observed  that  a  familiarity  with  the 
worst  characters  lessens  our  abhorrence  of  them  ;  and  a  wonder 
is  often  expressed  that  the  greatest  criminals  look  like  other  men. 
The  reason  is  that  they  are  like  other  men  in  many  respects.  If  a 
particular  individual  was  merely  the  wretch  we  read  of  or  con- 
ceive in  the  abstract,  that  is,  if  he  was  the  mere  personified  idea 
of  the  criminal  brought  to  the  bar,  he  would  not  disappoint  the 
spectator,  but  would  look  like  what  he  would  be — a  monster ! 
But  he  has  other  qualities,  ideas,  feelings,  nay,  probably  virtues, 
mixed  up  with  the  most  profligate  habits  or  desperate  acts.  This 
need  not  lessen  our  abhorrence  of  the  crime,  though  it  does  of 
the  criminal ;  for  it  has  the  latter  effect  only  by  showing  him  to 
us  in  different  points  of  view,  in  which  he  appears  a  common 
mortal,  and  not  the  caricature  of  vice  we  took  him  for,  nor  spot 
ted  all  over  with  infamy.  I  do  not  at  the  same  time  think  this"  a 
lax  or  dangerous,  though  it  is  a  charitable  view  of  the  subject. 
In  my  opinion,  no  man  ever  answered  in  his  own  mind  (except 
in  the  agonies  of  conscience  or  of  repentance,  in  which  latter 
case  he  throws  the  imputation  from  himself  in  another  way)  to 
the  abstract  idea  of  a  murderer.  He  may  have  killed  a  man  in 
self-defence,  or  "  in  the  trade  of  war,"  or  to  save  himself  from 
starving,  or  in  revenge  for  an  injury,  but  always  "  so  as  with  a 
difference,"  or  from  mixed  and  questionable  motives.  The  indi- 
vidual, in  reckoning  with  himself,  always  takes  into  the  account 
the  considerations  of  time,  place,  and  circumstance,  and  never 
makes  out  a  case  of  unmitigated,  unprovoked  villainy,  of  "  pure 
defecated  evil "  against  himself.  There  are  degrees  in  real 
crimes :  we  reason  and  moralize  only  by  names  and  in  classes, 
r  should  be  loth,  indeed,  to  say,  that  "  whatever  is,  is  right :" 
but  almost  every  actual  choice  inclines  to  it,  with  some  sort  of 
imperfect,  unconscious  bias.  This  is  the  reason,  besides  the 
ends  of  secresy,  of  the  invention  of  slang  terms  for  different  acts 
of  profligacy  committed  by  thieves,  pickpockets,  &c.  The  com- 
mon names  suggest  associations  of  disgust  in  the  minds  of  others, 
which  those  who  live  by  them  do  not  willingly  recognize,  and 
which  they  wish  to  sink  in  a  technical  phraseology.  So  theie  is  a 
story  of  a  fellow  who,  as  he  was  writing  down  his  confession  of 
a  murder,  stopped  to  ask  how  the  word  murder  was  spelt ;  this,  if 


120  TABLE  TALK. 


true,  was  partly  because  his  imagination  was  staggered  by  the 
recollection  of  the  thing,  and  partly  because  he  shrunk  from  the 
verbal  admission  of  it.  "Amen  stuck  in  his  throat !"  The  de- 
fence made  by  Eugene  Aram  of  himself  against  a  charge  ot 
murder  some  years  before,  shows  that  he  in  imagination  com- 
pletely flung  from  himself  the  nominal  crime  imputed  to  him :  he 
might,  indeed,  have  staggered  an  old  man  with  a  blow,  and  bu- 
ried his  body  in  a  cave,  and  lived  ever  since  upon  the  money  he 
found  upon  him,  but  there  was  "  no  malice  in  the  case,  none  at 
all,"  as  Peachum  says.  The  very  coolness,  subtlety,  and  cir- 
cumspection of  his  defence  (as  masterly  a  legal  document  as 
there  is  upon  record)  prove  that  he  was  guilty  of  the  act,  as 
much  as  they  prove  that  he  was  unconscious  of  the  crime.*  In 
the  same  spirit,  and  I  conceive  with  great  metaphysical  truth, 
Mr.  Coleridge,  in  his  tragedy  of  Remorse,  makes  Ordonio  (his 
chief  character)  waive  the  acknowledgment  of  his  meditated 
guilt  to  his  own  mind,  by  putting  into  his  mouth  that  striking  so- 
liloquy : 

"  Say,  I  had  laid  a  body  in  the  sun ! 

Well !  in  a  month  there  swarm  forth  from  the  corse 

A  thousand,  nay,  ten  thousand  sentient  beings 

In  place  of  that  one  man.     Say  I  had  MU'd  him! 

Yet  who  shall  tell  me  that  each  one  and  all 

Of  these  ten  thousand  lives  is  not  as  happy 

As  that  one  life,  which  being  push'd  aside, 

Made  room  for  these  unnumber'd." — Act  ii.  sc.  ii. 

I  am  not  sure,  indeed,  that  I  have  not  got  this  whole  train  of 
speculation  from  him ;  but  I  should  not  think  the  worse  of  it  on 
that  account.  That  gentlemen,  I  recollect,  once  asked  me 
whether  I  thought  that  the  different  members  of  a  family  really 
liked  one  another  so  well,  or  had  so  much  attachment  as  was 
generally  supposed  :  and  I  said  that  I  conceived  the  regard  they 
had   towards   each  other  was  expressed  by  the  word  interest, 

*  The  bones  of  the  murdered  man  were  dug  up  in  an  old  hermitage.  On 
this,  as  one  instance  of  the  acuteness  which  he  displayed  all  through  the  occa- 
sion, Aram  remarks,  "  Where  would  you  expect  to  find  the  bones  of  a  mar. 
sooner  than  in  a  hermit's  cell,  except  you  were  to  look  for  them  in  a  ceme- 
tery ?"— See  Newgate  Calendar  for  the  year  1758  or  '9. 


ON  THE  KNOWLEDGE  OF  CHARACTER.  121 


rather  than  by  any  other ;  which  he  said  was  the  true  answer, 
I  do  not  know  that  I  could  mend  it  now.  Natural  affection  ia 
not  pleasure  in  one  another's  company,  nor  admiration  of,  one 
another's  qualities ;  but  it  is  an  intimate  and  deep  knowledge  of 
the  things  that  affect  those,  to  whom  we  are  bound  by  the  nearest 
ties,  with  pleasure  or  with  pain ;  it  is  an  anxious,  uneasy  fellow- 
feeling  with  them,  a  jealous  watchfulness  over  their  good  .name, 
a  tender  and  unconquerable  yearning  for  their  good.  The  love, 
in  short,  we  bear  them,  is  the  nearest  to  that  we  bear  ourselves. 
Home,  according  to  the  old  saying,  is  home,  be  it  never  so  homely. 
We  love  ourselves,  not  according  to  our  deserts,  but  our  cravings 
after  good  :  so  we  love  our  immediate  relations  in  the  next  de- 
gree (if  not  even  sometimes  in  a  higher  one,)  because  we  know 
best  what  they  have  suffered  and  what  sits  nearest  to  their  hearts. 
We  are  implicated,  in  fact,  in  their  welfare  by  habit  and  sym- 
pathy, as  we  are  in  our  own. 

If  our  devotion  to  our  own  interests  is  much  the  same  as  to 
theirs,  we  are  ignorant  of  our  own  characters  for  the  same 
reason.  We  are  parties  too  much  concerned  to  return  a  fair 
verdict,  and  are  too  much  in  the  secret  of  our  own  motives  or 
situation  not  to  be  able  to  give  a  favourable  turn  to  our  actions. 
We  exercise  a  liberal  criticism  upon  ourselves,  and  put  off  the 
final  decision  to  a  late  day.  The  field  is  large  and  open.  Ham- 
let exclaims,  with  a  ncble  magnanimity,  "  I  count  myself  indif- 
ferent honest,  and  yet  I  could  accuse  me  of  such  things !"  If 
you  could  prove  to  a  man  that  he  is  a  knave,  it  would  not  make 
much  difference  in  his  opinion ;  his  self-love  is  stronger  than  his 
love  of  virtue.  Hypocrisy  is  generally  used  as  a  mask  to  de- 
ceive the  world,  not  to  impose  on  ourselves :  for  once  detect  the 
delinquent  in  his  knavery,  and  he  laughs  in  your  face  or  glories 
in  his  iniquity.  This  at  least  happens,  except  where  there  is  a 
contradiction  in  the  character,  and  our  vices  are  involuntary  and 
at  variance  with  our  convictions.  One  great  difficulty  is  to  dis- 
tinguish ostensible  motives,  or  such  as  we  acknowledge  to  our- 
selves, from  the  tacit  or  secret  springs  of  action.  A  man 
changes  his  opinion  readily,  he  thinks  it  candour :  it  is  levity  of 
mind.  For  the  most  part,  we  are  stunned  and  stupid  in  judging 
of  ourselves.     We  are  callous  by  custom  to  our  defects  or  ex- 

6* 


122  TABLE  TALK. 


cellences,  unless  where  vanity  steps  in  to  exaggerate  or  exten- 
uate them.  I  cannot  conceive  how  it  is  that  people  are  in  love 
with  their  own^persons,  or  astonished  at  their  own  performances, 
which  are  but  a  nine  days'  wonder  to  every  one  else.  In  gen- 
eral, it  may  be  laid  down  that  we  are  liable  to  this  twofold  mis- 
take in  judging  of  our  own  talents :  we,  in  the  first  place,  nurse 
the  rickety  bantling,  we  think  much  of  that  which  has  cost  us 
much  pains  and  labour,  and  which  goes  against  the  grain ;  and 
we  also  set  little  store  by  what  we  do  with  most  ease  to  our- 
selves, and  therefore  best.  The  works  of  the  greatest  genius 
are  produced  almost  unconsciously,  with  an  ignorance  on  the 
part  of  the  persons  themselves  that  they  have  done  anything  ex- 
traordinary. Nature  has  done  it  for  them.  How  little  Shakes- 
pear  seems  to  have  thought  of  himself  or  of  his  fame !  Yet, 
if  "  to  know  another  well,  were  to  know  one's  self,"  he  must 
have  been  acquainted  with  his  own  pretensions  and  character, 
"  who  knew  all  qualities  with  a  learned  spirit."  His  eye  seems 
never  to  have  been  bent  upon  himself,  but  outwards  upon  nature. 
A  man,  who  thinks  highly  of  himself,  may  almost  set  it  down 
that  it  is  without  reason.  Milton,  notwithstanding,  appears  to 
have  had  a  high  opinion  of  himself,  and  to  have  made  it  good. 
He  was  conscious  of  his  powers,  and  great  by  design.  Perhaps 
his  tenaciousness,  on  the  score  of  his  own  merit,  might  arise 
from  an  early  habit  of  polemical  writing,  in  which  his  preten- 
sions were  continually  called  to  the  bar  of  prejudice  and  party 
spirit,  and  he  had  to  plead  not  guilty  to  the  indictment.  Some 
men  have  died  unconscious  of  immortality;  as  others  have  almost 
exhausted  the  sense  of  it  in  their  life-time.  Correggio  might  be 
mentioned  as  an  instance  of  the  one,  Voltaire  of  the  other. 

There  is  nothing  that  helps  a  man  in  his  conduct  through  life 
more  than  a  knowledge  of  his  own  characteristic  weaknesses 
(which,  guarded  against,  become  his  strength),  as  there  is  nothing 
that  tends  more  to  the  success  of  a  man's  talents  than  his  know- 
ing the  limits  of  his  faculties,  which  are  thus  concentrated  on 
some  practicable  object.  One  man  can  do  but  one  thing.  Uni- 
versal pretensions  end  in  nothing.  Or,  as  Butler  has  it,  too  much 
wit  requires 

"  As  much  again  to  govern  it." 


ON  THE  KNOWLEDGE  OF  CHARACTER  1  *S 

There  are  those  who  have  gone  (for  want  of  this  self-knowlodge) 
strangely  out  of  their  way,  and  others  who  have  never  found  it 
We  find  many  who  succeed  in  certain  departments,  and  are  yet 
melancholy  and  dissatisfied,  because  they  failed  in  the  one  to 
which  they  first  devoted  themselves,  like  discarded  lovers  who 
pine  after  their  scornful  mistress.  I  will  conclude  with  observ- 
ing, that  authors  in  general  over-rate  the  extent  and  value  of 
posthumous  fame  :  for  what  (as  it  has  been  asked)  is  the  amount 
even  of  Shakespear's  fame  ?  That  in  that  very  country  which 
boasts  his  genius  and  his  birth,  perhaps  scarce  one  person  in  ten 
kas  ever  heard  of. his  name,  or  read  a  syllable  of  his  writings  2 


124  TABLE  TALK. 


ESSAY  XII. 

On  the  Fear  of  Death. 

"  And  our  little  life  is  rounded  with  a  sleep." 

Perhaps  the  best  cure  for  the  fear  of  death  is  to  reflect  that  life 
has  a  beginning  as  well  as  an  end.  T.  ;re  was  a  time  when  we 
were  not:  this  gives  us  no  concert* — why  then  should  it  trouble 
us  that  a  time  will  come  when  we  ihull  cease  to  be  ?  I  have  no 
wish  to  have  been  alive  a  hundred  years  ago,  or  in  the  reign  of 
Queen  Anne  :  why  should  I  regret  and  .  ay  it  so  much  to  heart 
that  I  shall  not  be  alive  a  hundred  yeary  hence,  in  the  reign  of  I 
cannot  tell  whom  ? 

When  Bickerstaff  wrote  his  Essays,  1  knew  nothing  of  the  sub- 
jects of  them :  nay,  much  later,  and  but  the  other  day.  as  it 
were,  in  the  beginning  of  the  reign  of  George  III.,  when  Gold- 
smith, Johnson,  Burke,  used  to  meet  at  the  Globe,  when  Gar- 
rick  was  in  his  glory,  and  Reynolds  was  over  head  and  ears  with 
his  portraits,  and  Sterne  brought  out  the  volumes  of  Tristram 
Shandy  year  by  year,  it  was  without  consulting  me :  I  had  not 
the  slightest  intimation  of  what  was  going  on :  the  debates  in  the 
House  of  Commons  on  the  American  war,  or  the  firing  at  Bunk- 
er's Hill,  disturbed  not  me  :  yet  I  thought  this  no  evil — I  neither 
ate,  drank,  nor  was  merry,  yet  I  did  not  complain :  I  had  not 
then  looked  out  into  this  breathing  world,  yet  I  was  well ;  and 
the  world  did  quite  as  well  without  me  as  I  did  without  it ! 
Why  then  should  I  make  all  this  outcry  about  parting  with  it, 
and  being  no  worse  off  than  I  was  before  ?  There  is  nothing  in 
the  recollection  that  at  a  certain  time  we  were  not  come  into  the 
world,  that  "  the  gorge  rises  at" — why  should  we  revolt  at  the 
idea  that  we  must  one  day  go  out  of  it  ?  To  die  is  only  to  be  as 
we  were  before  we  were  born  ;  yet  no  one  feels  any  remorse  01 
regret  or  repugnance  in  contemplating  this  last  idea.     It  is  rathei 


ON  THE  FEAR  OF  DEATH.  125 

a  relief  and  disburthening  of  the  mind :  it  seems  to  have  been 
holiday-time  with  ua  then :  we  were  not  called  to  appear  upon 
the  stage  of  life,  to  wear  robes  or  tatters,  to  laugh  or  cry,  be 
hooted  or  applauded  ;  we  had  lain  perdu  all  this  while,  snug,  ou 
of  harm's  way  ;  and  had  slept  out  our  thousands  of  centuries 
without  wanting  to  be  waked  up ;  at  peace  and  free  from  care, 
in  a  long  nonage,  in  a  sleep  deeper  and  calmer  than  that  of 
infancy,  wrapped  in  the  softest  and  finest  dust.  And  the  worst 
that  we  dread  is,  after  a  short,  fretful,  feverish  being,  after  vain 
hopes  and  idle  fears,  to  sink  to  final  repose  again,  and  forget  the 
troubled  dream  of  life  !  .  .  .  Ye  armed  men,  knights-templars, 
that  sleep  in  the  stone  aisles  of  that  old  Temple  Church,  where 
all  is  silent  above,  and  where  a  deeper  silence  reigns  below  (not 
broken  by  the  pealing  organ),  are  ye  not  contented  where  ye 
lie  ?  Or  would  you  come  out  of  your  long  homes  to  go  to  the 
Holy  War  ?  Or  do  ye  complain  that  pain  no  longer  visits  you, 
that  sickness  has  done  its  worst,  that  you  have  paid  the  last  debt 
to  nature,  that  you  hear  no  more  of  the  thickening  phalanx  of 
the  foe,  or  your  lady's  waning  love  ;  and  that  while  this  ball  of 
earth  rolls  its  eternal  round,  no  sound  shall  ever  pierce  through 
to  disturb  your  lasting  repose,  fixed  as  the  marble  over  your 
tombs,  breathless  as  the  grave  that  holds  you  !  And  thou,  oh  ! 
thou,  to  whom  my  heart  turns,  and  will  turn  while  it  has  feeling 
left,  who  didst  love  in  vain,  and  whose  first  was  thy  last  sigh, 
wilt  not  thou  too  rest  in  peace  (or  wilt  thou  cry  to  me  complain- 
ing from  thy  clay-cold  bed)  when  that  sad  heart  is  no  longer  sad, 
and  that  sorrow  is  dead,  which  thou  wert  only  called  into  the 
world  to  feel ! 

It  is  certain  that  there  is  nothing  in  the  idea  of  a  pre-exist- 
ent  state,  that  excites  our  longing  like  the  prospect  of  a  posthu- 
mous existence.  We  are  satisfied  to  have  begun  life  when  we 
did  ;  we  have  no  ambition  to  have  set  out  on  our  journey  sooner; 
and  feel  that  we  have  quite  enough  to  do  to  battle  our  way 
through  since.     We  cannot  say, 

"  The  wars  we  well  remember  of  King  Nine, 
Of  old  Assaracus  and  Inachus  divine:" 

neither  have  we  any  wish  :  we  are  contented  to  read  of  them  ia 


126  TABLE  TALK. 


story,  and  'o  stand  and  gaze  at  the  vast  sea  of  time  that  sepa- 
rates us  from  them.  It  was  early  days  then  :  the  world  was  not 
well-aired  enough  for  us  :  we  have  no  inclination  to  have  been 
up  and  stirring.  We  do  not  consider  the  six  thousand  years  of 
the  world  before  we  were  born  as  so  much  time  lost  to  us  :  we 
are  perfectly  indifferent  about  the  matter.  We  do  not  grieve-and 
lament  that  we  did  not  happen  to  be  in  time  to  see  the  grand 
mask  and  pageant  of  human  life  going  on  in  all  that  period  ; 
though  we  are  mortified  at  being  obliged  to  quit  our  station 
before  the  rest  of  the  procession  passes. 

It  may  be  suggested  in  explanation  of  this  difference,  that  we 
know  from  various  records  and  traditions  what  happened  in  the 
time  of  Queen  Anne,  or  even  in  the  reigns  of  the  Assyrian  mon> 
archs  :  but  that  we  have  no  means  of  ascertaining  what  is  to  hap- 
pen hereafter  except  by  awaiting  the  event,  and  that  our  eager- 
ness and  curiosity  are  sharpened  in  proportion  as  we  are  in  the 
dark  about  it.  This  is  not  at  all  the  case  ;  for  at  that  rate  we 
should  be  constantly  wishing  to  make  a  voyage  of  discovery  to 
Greenland  or  to  the  Moon,  neither  of  which  we  have,  in  general, 
the  least  desire  to  do.  Neither,  in  truth,  have  we  any  particular 
solicitude  to  pry  into  the  secrets  of  futurity,  but  as  a  pretext  for 
prolonging  our  own  existence.  It  is  not  so  much  that  we  care  to 
be  alive  a  hundred  or  a  thousand  years  hence,  any  more  than  to 
have  been  alive  a  hundred  or  a  thousand  years  ago  :  but  the  thing 
lies  here,  that  we  would  all  of  us  wish  the  present  moment  to  last 
forever.  We  would  be  as  we  are,  and  would  have  the  world 
remain  just  as  it  is,  to  please  our  fancy. 

"  The  present  eye  catches  the  present  object" — 

to  have  and  to  hold  while  it  may ;  and  we  abhor,  on  any  terms, 
to  have  it  torn  from  us,  and  nothing  left  in  its  room.  It  is  the 
pang  of  parting,  the  unloosing  our  grasp,  the  breaking  asunder 
some  strong  tie,  the  leaving  some  cherished  purpose  unfulfilled, 
that  creates  the  repugnance  to  go,  and  "  makes  calamity  of  so 
long  life,"  as  it  often  is. 

"  Oh  !  thou  strong  heart ! 

There's  such  a  covenant  'twixt  the  world  and  thee, 
Ye're  loth  to  break  !" 


ON  THE  FEAR  OF  DEATH.  127 

The  love  c»f  life,  then,  is  an  habitual  attachment,  not  an  abstract 
principle.  Simply  to  be  does  not  "  content  man's  natural  desire:" 
we  long  to  be  in  a  certain  time,  place,  and  circumstance.  We 
would  much  rather  be  now,  "on  this  bank  and  shoal  of  time,'' 
than  have  our  choice  of  any  future  period,  than  take  a  slice  of 
fifty  or  sixty  years  out  of  the  Millennium,  for  instance.  This 
shows  that  our  attachment  is  not  confined  either  to  being  or  to 
well-being  ;  but  that  we  have  an  inveterate  prejudice  in  favour 
of  our  immediate  existence,  such  as  it  is.  The  mountaineer  will 
not  leave  his  rock,  nor  the  savage  his  hut ;  neither  are  we  will- 
ing to  give  up  our  present  mode  of  life,  with  all  its  advantages 
and  disadvantages,  for  any  other  that  could  be  substituted  for  it. 
No  man  would,  I  think,  exchange  his  existence  with  any  other 
•man,  however  fortunate.  We  had  as  lief  not  be,  as  not  be  our- 
selves. There  are  some  persons  of  that  reach  of  soul  that  they 
would  like  to  live  two  hundred  and  fifty  years  hence,  to  see  to 
what  height  of  empire  America  will  have  grown  up  in  that  period, 
or  whether  the  English  Constitution  will  last  so  long.  These  are, 
points  beyond  me.  But  I  confess  I  should  like  to  live  to  see  the 
downfall  of  Legitimacy.  That  is  a  vital  question  with  me ;  and 
I  shall  like  it  the  better,  the  sooner  it  happens  ! 

No  young  man  ever  thinks  he  shall  die.  He  may  believe  that 
others  will,  or  assent  to  the  doctrine  that  "  all  men  are  mortal" 
as  an  abstract  proposition,  but  he  is  far  enough  from  bringing  it 
home  to  himself  individually.*  Youth,  buoyant  activity,  and 
animal  spirits  hold  absolute  antipathy  with  old  age  as  well  as 
with  death  ;  nor  have  we,  in  the  heyday  of  life,  any  more  than 
in  the  thoughtlessness  of  childhood,  the  remotest  conception  how 

"  This  sensible  warm  motion  can  become 
A  kneaded  clod" — 

nor  how  sanguine,  florid  health  and  vigour  shall  "turn  to  withered, 
weak,  and  grey."  Or  if  in  a  moment  of  idle  speculation  we  in- 
dulge in  this  notion  of  the  close  of  life  as  a  theory,  it  is  amazing 
at  what  a  distance  it  seems ;  what  a  long,  leisurely  perspective 
there  is  between  ;   what  a  contrast  its  slow  and  solemn  approach 

*  "All  men  think  all  men  mortal  but  themselves."-  -Younu. 


»2o  TABLE  TALK. 


affords  to  our  present  gay  fleeting  existence !  We  eye  the  farthest 
verge  of  the  horizon,  and  think  what  a  way  we  shall  have  to  look 
back  upon,  ere  we  arrive  at  our  journey's  end  ;  and  without  our 
in  the  least  suspecting  it,  the  mists  are  at  our  feet,  and  the  shadows 
of  age  encompass  us.  The  two  divisions  of  our  lives  have  melted 
into  each  other :  the  extreme  points  close  and  meet  with  none  of 
that  romantic  interval  stretching  out  between  them,  that  we  had 
reckoned  upon  ;  and  for  the  rich,  melancholy,  solemn  hues  of 
age,  "  the  sear,  the  yellow  leaf,"  the  deepening  shadows  of  an 
autumnal  evening,  we  only  feel  a  dank,  cold  mist  encircling  all 
objects,  after  the  spirit  of  youth  is  fled.  There  is  no  inducement 
to  look  forward  ;  and  what  is  worse,  little  interest  in  looking  back 
to  what  has  become  so  trite  and  common.  The  pleasures  of  our 
existence  have  worn  themselves  out,  are  "  gone  into  the  wastes 
of  time,"  or  have  turned  their  indifferent  side  to  us :  the  pains 
by  their  repeated  blows  have  worn  us  out,  and  have  left  us  neither 
spirit  nor  inclination  to  encounter  them  again  in  retrospect.  We 
do  not  want  to  rip  up  old  grievances,  nor  to  renew  our  youth  like 
ihe  phoenix,  nor  to  live  our  lives  twice  over.  Once  is  enough. 
As  the  tree  falls,  so  let  it  lie.  We  shut  up  the  book  and  close 
the  account  once  for  all  ! 

It  has  been  thought  by  some  that  life  is  like  the  exploring  of 
a  passage  that  grows  narrower  and  darker  the  farther  we  ad- 
vance, without  a  possibility  of  ever  turning  back,  and  where  we 
are  stifled  for  want  of  breath  at  last.  For  myself,  I  do  not  com- 
plain of  the  greater  thickness  of  the  atmosphere  as  I  approach 
the  narrow  house.  I  felt  it  more  formerly,*  when  the  idea  alone 
seemed  to  suppress  a  thousand  rising  hopes,  and  weighed  upon 
the  pulses  of  the  blood.  At  present  I  rather  feel  a  thinness  and 
want  of  support,  I  stretch  out  my  hand  to  some  object  and  find 
none,  I  am  too  much  in  a  world  of  abstraction ;  the  naked  map  of  life 
is  spread  out  before  me,  and  in  the  emptiness  and  desolation  I  see 
Death  coming  to  meet  me.  In  my  youth  I  could  not  behold  him 
for  the  crowd  of  objects  and  feelings,  and  Hope  stood  between  us, 
saying — "  Never  mind  that  old  fellow  !"     If  I  had  lived  indeed, 

*  I  remember,  once  in  particular,  having  this  feeling  in  reading  Schiller's 
Don  Carlos,  where  there  is  a  description  of  death,  in  a  degree  that  almost 
choaked  me. 


ON  THE  FEAR  OF  DEATH.  129 

I  should  not  so  much  care  to  die.  But  I  do  not  like  a  contraa 
of  pleasure  broken  off  unfulfilled,  a  marriage  with  joy  uncon- 
suinmated,  a  promise  of  happiness  rescinded.  My  public  and 
private  hopes  have  been  left  a  ruin,  or  remain  only  to  mock  me. 
I  would  wish  them  to  be  re-edified.  I  should  like  to  see  some  pros- 
pect of  good  to  mankind,  such  as  my  life  began  with.  I  should 
like  to  leave  some  sterling  work  behind  me.  I  should  like  to  have 
some  friendly  hand  to  consign  me  to  the  grave.  On  these  con- 
ditions I  am  ready,  if  not  willing,  to  depart.  I  could  then  write 
on  my  tomb — Grateful  and  Contented  !  But  I  have  thought 
and  suffered  too  much  to  be  willing  to  have  thought  and  suffered 
in  vain  ! — In  looking  back,  it  sometimes  appears  to  me  as  if  I 
had  in  a  manner  slept  out  my  life  in  a  dream  or  trance  on  the 
side  of  the  hill  of  knowledge,  where  I  have  fed  on  books,  on 
thoughts,  on  pictures,  and  only  heard  in  half-murmurs  the  tramp- 
ling of  busy  feet,  or  the  noises  of  the  throng  below.  Waked  out 
of  this  dim,  twilight  existence,  and  startled  with  the  passing 
scene,  I  have  felt  a  wish  to  descend  to  the  world  of  realities,  and 
join  in  the  chase.  But  I  fear  too  late,  and  that  I  had  better  re- 
turn to  my  bookish  chimeras  and  indolence  once  more  !  Zanetto, 
lascia  le  donne,  e  stadia  la  matamatica. 

It  is  not  wonderful  that  the  contemplation  and  fear  of  death 
become  more  familiar  to  us  as  we  approach  nearer  to  it :  that  life 
seems  to  ebb  with  the  decay  of  blood  and  youthful  spirits ;  and 
that  as  we  find  every  thing  about  us  subject  to  chance  and 
change,  as  our  strength  and  beauty  die,  as  our  hopes  and  pas- 
sions, our  friends  and  our  affections  leave  us,  we  begin  by  degrees 
to  feel  ourselves  mortal  ! 

I  have  never  seen  death  but  once,  and  that  was  in  an  infant. 
It  is  years  ago.  The  look  was  calm  and  placid,  and  the  face 
was  fair  and  firm.  It  was  as  if  a  waxen  image  had  been  laid 
out  in  the  coffin,  and  strewed  with  innocent  flowers.  It  was  not 
like  death,  but  more  like  an  image  of  life !  No  breath  moved 
the  lips,  no  pulse  stirred,  no  sight  or  sound  wou?d  enter  those 
eyes  or  ears  more.  While  I  looked  at  it,  I  saw  that  no  pain  was 
there  ;  it  seemed  to  smile  at  the  short  pang  of  life  which  was 
over:  but  I  could  not  bear  the  coffin-lid  to  be  closed — it  almcst 
9 


130  TABLE  TALK. 


stifled  me ;  and  still  as  the  nettles  wave  in  a  corner  of  the 
church-yard  over  his  little  grave,  the  welcome  breeze  helps  to  re- 
fresh me  and  ease  the  tightness  at  my  breast ! 

An  ivory  or  marble  image,  like  Chantry's  monument  of  the 
two  children,  is  contemplated  with  pure  delight.  Why  do  we 
not  grieve  and  fret  that  the  marble  is  not  alive,  or  fancy  that  it 
has  a  shortness  of  breath  ?  It  never  was  alive  ;  and  it  is  the 
difficulty  of  making  the  transition  from  life  to  death,  the  struggle 
between  the  two  in  our  imagination,  that  confounds  their  proper- 
ties painfully  together,  and  makes  us  conceive  that  the  infant 
that  is  but  just  dead,  still  wants  to  breathe,  to  enjoy,  and  look 
about  it,  and  is  prevented  by  the  icy  hand  of  death,  locking  uj) 
its  faculties  and  benumbing  its  senses  ;  so  that,  if  it  could,  it 
would  complain  of  its  own  hard  fate.  Perhaps  religious  consi- 
derations reconcile  the  mind  to  this  change  sooner  than  any 
others,  by  representing  the  spirit  as  fled  to  another  sphere,  and 
leaving  the  body  behind  it.  But  in  reflecting  on  death  generally, 
we  mix  up  the  idea  of  life  with  it,  and  thus  make  it  the  ghastly 
monster  it  is.  We  think  how  we  should  feel,  not  how  the  dead 
feel. 

"  Still  from  the  tomb  the  voice  of  nature  cries  ; 
Even  in  our  ashes  live  their  wonted  fires!" 

There  is  an  admirable  passage  on  this  subject  in  Tucker's  Light 
of  Nature  Pursued,  which  I  shall  transcribe,  as  by  much  the  best 
illustration  I  can  offer  of  it. 

"  The  melancholy  appearance  of  a  lifeless  body,  the  mansion 
provided  for  it  to  inhabit,  dark,  cold,  close  and  solitary,  are 
shocking  to  the  imagination ;  but  it  is  to  the  imagination  only, 
not  to  the  understanding :  for  whoever  consults  this  faculty  will 
see  at  first  glance,  that  there  is  nothing  dismal  in  all  these  cir- 
cumstances :  if  the  corpse  were  kept  wrapped  up  in  a  warm  bed, 
with  a  roasting  fire  in  the  chamber,  it  would  feel  no  comfortable 
warmth  therefrom;  were  store  of  tapers  lighted  up  as  soon  as 
day  shuts  in,  it  would  see  no  objects  to  divert  it ;  were  it  left  at 
large,  it  would  have  ho  liberty,  nor  if  surrounded  with  company, 
would  be  cheered  thereby  ;  neither  are  the  distorted  features  ex- 
pressions of  pain,  uneasiness,  or  distress.     This  every  one  knows, 


ON  THE  FEAR  OF  DEATH.  131 

and  will  readily  allow  upon  being  suggested,  yet  still  cannot  be- 
hold, nor  even  cast  a  thought  upon  those  objects  without  shud- 
dering ;  for  knowing  that  a  living  person  must  suffer  grievously 
under  such  appearances,  they  become  habitually  formidable  to 
the  mind,  and  strike  a  mechanical  horror,  which  is  increased  by 
the  customs  of  the  world  around  us." 

There  is  usually  one  pang  added  voluntarily  and  unnecessarily 
to  the  fear  of  death,  by  our  affecting  to  compassionate  the  loss 
which  others  will  have  in  us.  If  that  were  all,  we  might  rea- 
sonably set  our  minds  at  rest.  The  pathetic  exhortation  on 
country  tomb-stones,  "  Grieve  not  for  me,  my  wife  and  children 
dear,"  &c.  is  for  the  most  part  speedily  followed  to  the  letter. 
We  do  not  leave  so  great  a  void  in  society  as  we  are  inclined  to 
imagine,  partly  to  magnify  our  own  importance,  and  partly 
to  console  ourselves  by  sympathy.  Even  in  the  same  family  the 
gap  is  not  so  great :  the  wound  closes  up  sooner  than  We  should 
expect.  Nay,  our  room  is  not  unfrequently  thought  better 
than  our  company.  People  walk  along  the  streets  the  day  after 
our  deaths  just  as  they  did  before,  and  the  crowd  is  not  dimin- 
ished. While  we  were  living,  the  world  seemed  in  a  manner 
to  exist  only  for  us,  for  our  delight  and  amusement,  because  it 
contributed  to  them.  But  our  hearts  cease  to  beat,  and  it  goes 
on  as  usual,  and  thinks  no  more  about  us  than  it  did  in  our  life- 
time. The  million  are  devoid  of  sentiment,  and  care  as  little  for 
you  or  me  as  if  we  belonged  to  the  moon.  We  live  the  week 
over  in  the  Sunday's  newspaper,  or  are  decently  interred  in  some 
obituary  at  the  month's  end  !  It  is  not  surprising  that  we  are 
forgotten  so  soon  after  we  quit  this  mortal  stage :  we  are  scarcely 
noticed,  while  we  are  on  it.  It  is  not  merely  that  our  names  are 
not  known  in  China — they  have  hardly  been  heard  of  in  the  next 
street.  We  are  hand  and  glove  with  the  universe,  and  think  the 
obligation  is  mutual.  This  is  an  evident  fallacy.  If  this,  however, 
does  not  trouble  us  now,  it  will  not  hereafter.  A  handful  of  dust  can 
have  no  quarrel  to  pick  with  its  neighbours,  or  complaint  to  make 
against  Providence,  and  might  well  exclaim,  if  it  had  but  an  un- 
derstanding and  a  tongue,  "  Go  thy  ways,  old  world  ;  swing  round 
in  blue  ether,  voluble  to  every  age,  you  and  I  shall  no  more 
jostle!" 


132  TABLE  TALK. 


It  is  amazing  how  soon  the  rich  and  titled,  and  even  some  of 
those  who  have  wielded  great  political  power,  are  forgotten : 

"  A  little  rule,  a  little  sway, 

Is  all  the  great  and  mighty  have 

Betwixt  the  cradle  and  the  grave" — 

and,  after  its  short  date,  they  hardly  leave  a  name  behind  them. 
"  A  great  man's  memory  may,  at  the  common  rate,  survive  him 
half  a  year."  His  heirs  and  successors  take  his  titles,  his  power, 
and  his  wealth — all  that  made  him  considerable  or  courted  by 
others  ;  and  he  has  left  nothing  else  behind  him  either  to  flatter 
or  benefit  the  world.  Posterity  are  not  by  any  means  so  disin- 
terested as  they  are  supposed  to  be.  They  give  their  gratitude 
and  admiration  only  in  return  for  benefits  conferred.  They 
cherish  the  memory  of  those  to  whom  they  are  indebted  for  in- 
struction and  delight ;  and  they  cherish  it  just  in  proportion  to 
the  instruction  and  delight  they  are  conscious  of  receiving.  The 
sentiment  of  admiration  springs  immediately  from  this  ground ; 
and  cannot  be  otherwise  than  well-founded.* 

The  effeminate  clinging  to  life  as  such,  as  a  general  or  abstract 
idea,  is  the  effect  of  a  highly  civilized  and  artificial  state  of  so- 
ciety. Men  formerly  plunged  into  all  the  vicissitudes  and  dangers 
of  war,  or  staked  their  all  upon  a  single  die,  or  some  one  pas- 
sion, which,  if  they  could  not  have  gratified,  life  became  a  burthen 
to  them — now  our  strongest  passion  is  to  think,  our  chief  amuse- 
ment is  to  read  new  plays,  new  poems,  new  novels,  and  this  we 
may  do  at  our  leisure,  in  perfect  security,  ad  infinitum.  If  we 
look  into  the  old  histories  and  romances,  before  the  belles-lettres 
neutralized  human  affairs  and  reduced  passion  to  a  state  of  men- 
tal equivocation,  we  find  the  heroes  and  heroines  not  setting  their 
lives  "  at  a  pin's  fee,"  but  rather  courting  opportunities  of  throw- 

*  It  has  been  usual  to  raise  a  very  unjust  clamour  against  the  enormous 
salai-ies  of  public  singers,  actors,  and  so  on.  This  matter  seems  reducible  to 
a  moral  equation.  They  are  paid  out  of  money  raised  by  voluntary  contribu- 
tions in  the  strictest  sense;  and  if  they  did  not  bring  certain  sums  into  the 
treasury,  the  Managers  would  not  engage  them.  These  sums  are  exactly  in 
proportion  to  the  number  of  individuals  to  whom  their  performances  gives  an 
extraordinary  degree  of  pleasure.  The  talents  of  a  singer,  actor,  &cc.  are  there- 
fore worth  just  as  much  as  they  wil"  fetch. 


ON  THE  FEAR  OF  DEATH.  133 


ing  them  away  in  very  wantonness  of  spirit.  They  raise  their 
fondness  for  some  favourite  pursuit  to  its  height,  to  a  pitch  of 
madness,  and  think  no  price  too  dear  to  pay  for  its  full  gratifica- 
tion. Every  thing  else  is  dross.  They  go  to  death  as  to  a  bridal 
bed,  and  sacrifice  themselves  or  others  without  remorse  at  the 
shrine  of  love,  of  honour,  of  religion,  or  any  other  prevailing 
feeling.  Romeo  runs  his  "sea-sick,  weary  bark  upon  the  rocks" 
of  death,  the  instant  he  finds  himself  deprived  of  his  Juliet ;  and 
she  clasps  his  neck  in  their  last  agonies,  and  follows  him  to  the 
same  fatal  shore.  One  strong  idea  takes  possession  of  the  mind 
and  overrules  every  other  ;  and  even  life  itself,  joyless  without 
that,  becomes  an  object  of  indifference  or  loathing.  There  is  at 
least  more  of  imagination  in  such  a  state  of  things,  more  vigour 
of  feeling  and  promptitude  to  act,  than  in  our  lingering,  languid, 
protracted  attachment  to  life,  for  its  own  poor  sake.  It  is  perhaps 
also  better,  as  well  as  more  hcroical,  to  strike  at  some  daring  or 
darling  object,  and  if  we  IVil  n  that,  to  take  the  consequences 
manfully,  than  to  renew  thtr  lease  of  a  tedious,  spiritless,  charm- 
less existence,  merely  (as  Pierre  says,)  "to  lose  it  afterwards  in 
some  vile  brawl"  for  some  v-orthless  object.  Was  there  not  a 
spirit  of  martyrdom  as  well  as  a  mixture  of  the  reckless  energy 
of  barbarism  in  this  bold  defiance  of  death  ?  Had  not  religion 
something  to  do  with  it :  the  implicit  belief  in  another  state  of 
being,  which  rendered  this  of  less  value,  and  embodied  something 
beyond  it  to  the  imagination ;  so  that  the  rough  soldier,  the  in- 
fatuated lover,  the  valorous  knight,  &c.  could  afford  to  throw 
away  the  present  venture,  and  take  a  leap  into  the  arms  of  fu- 
turity, which  the  modern  sceptic  shrinks  back  from,  with  all  his 
boasted  reason  and  vain  philosophy,  weaker  than  a  woman !  I 
cannot  help  thinking  so  myself;  but  I  have  endeavoured  to  ex- 
plain this  point  before,  and  will  not  enlarge  farther  on  it  here. 

A  life  of  action  and  danger  moderates  the  dread  of  death.  It 
not  only  gives  us  fortitude  to  bear  pain,  but  teaches  us  at  every 
step  the  precarious  tenure  on  which  we  hold  our  present  being. 
Sedentary  and  studious  men  are  the  most  apprehensive  on  this 
score.  Dr.  Johnson  was  an  instance  in  point.  A  few  yeara 
seemed  to  him  soon  over,  compared  with  those  sweeping  contem 
plations  on  time  and  infinity  with  which  he  had  been  used  to  pose 


134  TABLE  TALK. 


himself.  In  the  still-life  of  a  man  of  letters,  there  was  no  obvi- 
ous reason  for  a  change.  He  might  sit  in  an  arm-chair  and 
pour  out  cups  of  tea  to  all  eternity.  Would  it  had  been  possible 
for  him  to  do  so  !  The  most  rational  cure  after  all  for  the  inor- 
dinate fear  of  death  is  to  set  a  just  value  on  life.  If  we  merely 
wish  to  continue  on  the  scene  to  indulge  our  headstrong  humours 
and  tormenting  passions,  we  had  better  begone  at  once  :  and  if 
wc  only  cherish  a  fondness  for  existence  according  to  tne  bene- 
fit* we  reap  from  it,  the  pang  we  feel  at  parting  with  it  will  not 
be  vp*y  sereie! 


ON  APPLICATION  TO  STUDY.  135 


.      ESSAY  XIII. 

On  Application  to  Study. 

No  one  is  idle,  who  can  do  any  thing.  It  is  conscious  inability 
or  the  sense  of  repeated  failure,  that  prevents  us  from  undertak 
ing,  or  deters  us  from  the  prosecution  of  any  work. 

Wilson  the  painter  might  be  mentioned  as  an  exception  to  this 
rule ;  for  he  was  said  to  be  an  indolent  man.  After  bestowing  a 
few  touches  on  a  picture,  he  grew  tired,  and  said  to  any  friend 
who  called  in,  "  Now,  let  us  go  somewhere !"  But  the  fact  is, 
that  Wilson  could  not  finish  his  pictures  minutely  ;  and  that  those 
few  masterly  touches,  carelessly  thrown  in  of  a  morning,  were 
all  that  he  could  do.  The  rest  would  have  been  labour  lost. 
Morland  has  been  referred  to  as  another  man  of  genius,  who 
could  only  be  brought  to  work  by  fits  and  snatches.  But  his  land- 
scapes and  figures  (whatever  degree  of  merit  they  might  possess) 
were  mere  hasty  sketches ;  and  he  could  produce  all  that  he  was 
capable  of,  in  the  first  half-hour,  as  well  as  in  twenty  years. 
Why  bestow  additional  pains  without  additional  effect  ?  What 
he  did  was  from  the  impulse  of  the  moment,  from  the  lively  im- 
pression of  some  coarse,  but  striking  object ;  and  with  that  im- 
pulse his  efforts  ceased,  as  they  justly  ought.  There  is  no 
use  in  labouring,  invito.  Minerva — nor  any  difficulty  in  it,  when 
the  Muse  is  not  averse. 

"  The  laoour  we  delight  in  physics  pain." 

Denner  finished  his  unmeaning  portraits  with  a  microscope, 
and  without  being  ever  weary  of  his  fruitless  task ;  for  the  es- 
sence of  his  genius  was  industry.  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  courted 
by  the  Graces  and  by  Fortune,  was  hardly  ever  out  of  his  pain*.- 
mg-room ;  and  lamented  a  few  days,  at  any  time  spent  at  a 
friend's  house  or  at  a  nobleman's  seat  in  the  country,  as  so  irr^ch 


186  TABLE  TALK. 


time  lost.  That  darkly-illuminated  room  "  to  him  a  kingdom 
was  :"  his  pencil  was  the  sceptre  that  he  wielded,  and  the  throne 
on  which  his  sitters  were  placed,  a  throne  for  Fame.  Here  he 
felt  indeed  at  home  ;  here  the  current  of  his  ideas  flowed  full  and 
strong  ;  here  he  felt  most  self-possession  j  most  command  over 
others  ;  and  the  sense  of  power  urged  him  on  to  his  delightful 
task  with  a  sort  of  vernal  cheerfulness  and  vigour,  even  in  the 
decline  of  life.  The  feeling  of  weakness  and  incapacity  would 
have  made  his  hand  soon  falter,  would  have  rebutted  him  from 
his  object ;  or  had  the  canvas  mocked,  and  been  insensible  to  Iris 
toil,  instead  of  gradually  turning  to 

"  A  lucid  mirror,  in  which  nature  saw 
All  her  reflected  features," 

he  would,  like  so  many  others,  have  thrown  down  his  pencil  in 
despair,  or  proceeded  reluctantly,  without  spirit  and  without 
success.  Claude  Lorraine,  in  like  manner,  spent  whole  mornings 
on  the  banks  of  the  Tiber  or  in  his  study,  eliciting  beauty  after 
beauty,  adding  touch  to  touch,  getting  nearer  and  nearer  to  per- 
fection, luxuriating  in  endless  felicity — not  merely  giving  the 
salient  points,  but  filling  up  the  whole  intermediate  space  with 
continuous  grace  and  beauty  !  What  farther  motive  was  neces- 
sary to  induce  him  to  persevere,  but  the  bounty  of  his  fate  ?  What 
greater  pleasure  could  he  seek  for,  than  that  of  seeing  the  perfect 
image  of  his  mind  reflected  in  the  work  of  his  hand  ?  But  as  is 
the  pleasure  and  the  confidence  produced  by  consummate  skill, 
so  is  the  pain  and  the  disheartening  effect  of  total  failure.  When 
for  the  fair  face  of  nature  we  only  see  an  unsightly  blot  issuing 
from  our  best  endeavours,  then  the  nerves  slacken,  the  tears  fill 
♦he  eyes,  and  the  painter  turns  away  from  his  art,  as  the  lover 
from  a  mistress  that  scorns  him.  Alas  !  how  many  such  h&.ve, 
as  the  poet  says, 

"  Begun  in  gladness  ; 
Whereof  has  come  in  the  end  despondency  and  madness" — 

not  for  want  of  will  to  proceed,  (oh,  no  !)  but  for  lack  of  power ! 

Hence  it  is  that  those  often  do  best  (up  to  a  certain  point  of 

common- place  success)  who  have  least  knowledge  and  least  am- 


ON  APPLICATION  TO  STUDY  137 

bition  to  excel.  Their  taste  keeps  pace  with  their  capacity ;  and 
they  are  not  deterred  by  insurmountable  difficulties,  of  which 
they  have  no  idea.  I  have  knpwn  artists  (for  instance)  of  con- 
siderable merit,  and  a  certain  native  rough  strength  and  resolu- 
tion of  mind,  who  have  been  active  and  enterprizing  in  their  pro- 
fession, but  who  never  seemed  to  think  of  any  works  but  those 
which  they  had  in  hand ;  they  never  spoke  of  a  picture,  or  ap- 
peared to  have  seen  one  :  to  them  Titian,  Raphael,  Rubens,  Rem- 
brandt, Correggio,  were  as  if  they  had  never  been  :  no  tones,  mel- 
lowed by  time  to  soft  perfection,  lured  them  to  their  luckless 
doom,  no  divine  forms  baffled  their  vain  embrace  ;  no  sound  of 
immortality  rung  in  their  ears,  or  drew  off  their  attention  from 
the  calls  of  creditors  or  of  hunger  :  they  walked  through  collec- 
tions of  the  finest  works,  like  the  Children  in  the  Fiery  Furnace, 
untouched,  unapproached.  With  these  true  terra  Jilii  the  art 
might  be  supposed  to  begin  and  end  :  they  thought  only  of  the 
subject  of  their  next  production,  the  size  of  their  next  canvas, 
the  grouping,  the  getting  in  of  the  figures ;  and  conducted  their 
work  to  its  conclusion  with  as  little  distraction  of  mind  and  as  few 
misgivings,  as  a  stage-coachman  conducts  a  stage,  or  a  carrier 
delivers  a  bale  of  goods,  according  to  its  destination.  Such  per- 
sons, if  they  do  not  rise  above,  at  least  seldom  sink  below  them- 
selves. They  do  not  soar  to  the  "highest  Heaven  of  invention," 
nor  penetrate  the  inmost  recesses  of  the  heart  ;  but  they  succeed 
in  all  that  they  attempt  or  are  capable  of,  as  men  of  business  and 
of  industry  in  their  calling.  For  them  the  veil  of  the  Temple  of 
Art  is  not  rent  asunder,  and  it  is  well :  one  glimpse  of  the  Sanc- 
tuary, of  the  Holy  of  the  Holies,  might  palsy  their  hands,  and 
bedim  their  sight  forever  after  ! 

I  think  there  are  two  mistakes,  common  enough  on  this  subject, 
viz. :  That  men  of  genius,  or  of  first-rate  capacity,  do  little,  ex- 
cept by  intermittent  fits,  or  per  saltum — and  that  they  do  that  little 
in  a  slight  and  slovenly  manner.  There  may  be  instances  of 
this  ;  but  they  are  not  the  highest,  and  they  are  the  exceptions, 
not  the  rule.  On  the  contrary,  the  greatest  artists  have  in  general 
been  the  most  prolific  or  the  most  elaborate,  as  the  best  writers 
nave  been  frequently  the  most  voluminous  as  well  as  indefatigable. 
"We  have  a  great  living  instance  among  writers,  that  the  quality 

7 


138  TABLE  TALK. 


of  a  man's  productions  is  not  to  be  estimated  in  the  inverse  ratio 
of  their  quantity,  I  mean  in  the  Author  of  Waverley  ;  the  fecun- 
dity of  whose  pen  is  no  less  admirable  than  its  felicity.  Shake- 
spear  is  another  instance  of  the  same  prodigality  of  genius  \  his 
materials  being  endlessly  poured  forth  with  no  niggard  or  fastidi- 
ous hand,  and  the  mastery  of  the  execution  being  (in  many  re- 
spects at  least)  equal  to  the  boldness  of  the  design.  As  one  ex- 
ample among  others  that  I  might  cite  of  the  attention  which  he 
gave  to  his  subject,  it  is  sufficient  to  observe,  that  there  is  scarcely 
a  word  in  any  of  his  more  striking  passages  that  can  be  altered 
for  the  better.  If  any  person,  for  instance,  is  trying  to  recollect 
a  favourite  line,  and  cannot  hit  upon  some  particular  expression, 
it  is  in  vain  to  think  of  substituting  any  other  so  good.  That  in 
the  original  text  is  not  merely  the  best,  but  it  seems  the  only  right 
one.  I  will  stop  to  illustrate  this  point  a  little.  I  was  at  a  loss 
the  other  day  for  the  line  in  Henry  V., 

"  Nice  customs  curtesy  to  great  kings." 

I  could  not  recollect  the  word  nice  :  I  tried  a  number  of  others, 
such  as  old,  grave,  &c. — they  would  none  of  them  do,  but  seemed 
all  heavy,  lumbering,  or  from  the  purpose  :  the  word  nice,  on  the 
contrary,  appeared  to  drop  into  its  place,  and  be  ready  to  assist 
ih  paying  the  reverence  due.     Again, 

"  A  jest's  prosperity  lies  in  the  ear 
Of  him  that  hears  it." 

1  thought,  in  quoting  from  memory,  of  "  A  jest's  success,"  "  A 
jest's  renown,"  &c.  I  then  turned  to  the  volume,  and  there  found 
the  very  word  that  of  all  others  expressed  the  idea.  Had  Shake- 
spear  searched  through  the  four  quarters  of  the  globe,  he  could 
not  have  lighted  on  another  to  convey  so  exactly  what  he  meant 
— a  casual,  hollow,  sounding  success  !  I  could  multiply  such  ex- 
amples, but  that  I  am  sure  the  reader  will  easily  supply  them 
himself;  and  they  show  sufficiently  that  Shakespear  was  not  (as 
he  is  often  represented)  a  loose  or  clumsy  writer.  The  bold, 
happy  texture  of  his  style,  in  which  every  word  is  prominent, 
and  yet  cannot  be  torn  from  its  place  without  violence,  any  more 
than  a  limb  from  the  body,  is  (one  should  think)  the  result  either 


ON  APPLICATION  TO  STUDY.  139 

of  vigilant  pains-taking,  or  of  unerring,  intuitive  perception,  and 
not  the  mark  of  crude  conceptions,  or  "  the  random,  blindfold 
blows  of  ignorance." 

There  cannot  be  a  greater  contradiction  to  the  common  pre- 
judice that  "  Genius  is  naturally  a  truant  and  a  vagabond," 
than  the  astonishing  and  (on  this  '  hypothesis)  unaccountable 
number  of  chef-d'ceuvres  left  behind  them  by  the  Old  Masters. 
The  stream  of  their  invention  supplies  the  taste  of  successive 
generations  like  a  river :  they  furnish  a  hundred  Galleries,  and 
preclude  competition,  not  more  by  the  excellence  than  by  the 
extent  of  their  performances.  Take  Raphael  and  Rubens  for 
instance.  There  are  works  of  theirs  in  single  Collections  enough 
to  occupy  a  long  and  laborious  life,  and  yet  their  works  are 
spread  through  all  the  Collections  of  Europe.  They  seem  to 
have  cost  them  no  more  labour  than  if  they  "  had  drawn  in  their 
breath  and  puffed  it  forth  again."  But  we  know  that  they  made 
drawings,  studies,  sketches  of  all  the  principal  of  these,  with  the 
care  and  caution  of  the  merest  tyros  in  the  art ;  and  they  remain 
equal  proofs  of  their  capacity  and  diligence.  The  Cartoons  of 
Raphael  alone  might  have  employed  many  years,  and  made  a 
life  of  illustrious  labour,  though  they  look  as  if  they  had  been 
struck  off  at  a  blow,  and  are  not  a  tenth  part  of  what  he  pro- 
duced in  his  short  but  bright  career.  Titian  and  Michael  An- 
gelo  lived  longer ;  but  they  worked  as  hard  and  did  as  well. 
Shall  we  bring  in  competition  with  examples  like  these  some 
trashy  caricaturist  or  idle  dauber,  who  has  no  sense  of  the  in- 
finite resources  of  nature  or  art,  nor  consequently  any  power  to 
employ  himself  upon  them  for  any  length  of  time  or  to  any  pur- 
pose, to  prove  that  genius  and  regular  industry  are  incompatible 
qualities  ? 

In  my  opinion,  the  very  superiority  of  the  works  of  the  great 
painters  (instead  of  being  a  bar  to)  accounts  for  their  multipli- 
city. Power  is  pleasure ;  and  pleasure  sweetens  pain.  A  fine 
poet  thus  describes  the  effect  of  the  sight  of  nature  on  his 
mind: 

"  The  sounding  cataract 

Haunted  me  like  a  passion ;  the  tall  rock, 
The  mountain,  and  the  deep  and  gloomy  wood, 


140  TABLE  TALK. 


Tneir  colours  and  their  forms  were  then  to  me 
An  appetite,  a  feeling,  and  a  love, 
That  had  no  need  of  a  remoter  charm 
By  thought  supplied,  or  any  interest 
Unborrowed  from  the  eye." 

So  the  fbf-ns  of  nature,  or  the  human  form  divine,  stood  before 
the  great  artists  of  old,  nor  required  any  other  stimulus  to  lead 
the  eye  to  survey,  or  the  hand  to  embody  them,  than  the  pleasure 
derived  from  the  inspiration  of  the  subject,  and  "  propulsive 
force"  of  the  mimic  creation.  'The  grandeur  of  their  works  was 
an  argument  with  them,  not  to  stop  short,  but  to  proceed.  They 
could  have  no  higher  excitement  or  satisfaction  than  in  the  exer- 
cise of  their  art  and  endless  generation  of  truth  and  beauty. 
Success  prompts  to  exertion ;  and  habit  facilitates  success.  It 
is  idle  to  suppose  we  can  exhaust  nature ;  and  the  more  we 
employ  our  own  faculties,  the  more  we  strengthen  them  and 
enrich  our  stores  of  observation  and  invention.  The  more  we 
do,  the  more  we  can  do.  Not  indeed  if  we  get  our  ideas  out  of 
our  own  heads — that  stock  is  soon  exhausted,  and  we  recur  to 
tiresome,  vapid  imitations  of  ourselves.  But  this  is  the  difference 
between  real  and  mock  talent,  between  genius  and  affectation. 
Nature  is  not  limited,  nor  does  it  become  effete,  like  our  conceit 
and  vanity.  The  closer  we  examine  it,  the  more  it  refines  upon 
us  ;  it  expands  as  we  enlarge  and  shift  our  view ;  it  "  grows 
with  our  growth,  and  strengthens  with  our  strength."  The  sub- 
jects are  endless ;  and  our  capacity  is  invigorated  as  it  is  called 
out  by  occasion  and  necessity.  He  who  does  nothing,  renders 
himself  incapable  of  doing  any  thing ;  but  while  we  are  execu- 
ting any  work,  we  are  preparing  and  qualifying  ourselves  to 
undertake  another.  The  principles  are  the  same  in  all  nature ; 
and  we  understand  them  better,  as  we  verify  them  by  experience 
and  practice.  It  is  not  as  if  there  was  a  given  number  of  sub- 
jects to  work  upon,  or  a  set  of  innate  or  preconceived  ideas  in 
our  minds,  which  we  encroached  upon  with  every  new  design  ; 
the  subjects,  as  I  said  before,  are  endless,  and  we  acquire  ideas 
by  imparting  them.  Our  expenditure  of  intellectual  wealth 
makes  us  rich :  we  can  only  be  liberal  as  we  have  previously 
accumulated  the  means.     By  lying  idle,  as  by  standing  still,  we 


ON  APPLICATION  TO  STUDF.  141 

are  confined  to  the  same  trite,  narrow  round  of  topics :  by  con- 
tinuing our  efforts,  as  by  moving  forwards  in  a  road,  we  extend 
our  views,  and  discover  continually  new  tracts  of  country. 
Genius,  like  humanity,  rusts  for  want  of  use. 

Habit  also  gives  promptness ;  and  the  soul  of  dispatch  is  de- 
cision. One  man  may  write  a  book  or  paint  a  picture,  while 
another  is  deliberating  about  the  plan  or  the  title-page.  The 
great  painters  were  able  to  do  so  much,  because  they  knew  ex- 
actly what  they  meant  to  do,  and  how  to  set  about  it.  They 
were  thorough-bred  workmen,  and  were  not  learning  their  art 
while  they  were  exercising  it.  We  can  do  a  great  deal  in  a 
short  time  if  we  only  know  how.  Thus  an  author  may  become 
very  voluminous,  who  only  employs  an  hour  or  two  in  a  day  in 
study.  If  he  has  once  obtained,  by  habit  and  reflection,  a  use 
of  his  pen  with  plenty  of  materials  to  work  upon,  the  pages  van- 
ish before  him.  The  time  lost  is  in  beginning,  or  in  stopping 
after  we  have  begun.  If  we  only  go  forwards  with  spirit  and 
confidence,  we  shall  soon  arrive  at  the  end  of  our  journey.  A 
practised  writer  ought  never  to  hesitate  for  a  sentence  from  the 
moment  he  sets  pen  to  paper,  or  think  about  the  course  he  is  to 
take.  He  must  trust  to  his  previous  knowledge  of  the  subject 
and  to  his  immediate  impulses,  and  he  will  get  to  the  close  of  his 
task  without  accidents  or  loss  of  time.  I  can  easily  understand 
how  the  old  divines  and  controversialists  produced  their  folios  :  I 
could  write  folios  myself,  if  I  rose  early  and  sat  up  late  at  this 
kind  of  occupation.  But  I  confess  I  should  be  soon  tired  of  it, 
besides  wearying  the  reader. 

In  one  sense,  art  is  long  and  life  is  short.  In  another  sense, 
this  aphorism  is  not  true.  The  best  of  us  are  idle  half  our  time. 
It  is  wonderful  how  much  is  done  in  a  short  space,  provided  we 
set  about  it  properly,  and  give  our  minds  wholly  to  it.  Let  any 
one  devote  himself  to  any  art  or  science  ever  so  strenuously,  and 
he  will  still  have  leisure  to  make  considerable  progress  in  half  a 
dozen  other  acquirements.  Leonardo  da  Vinci  was  a  mathema- 
tician, a  musician,  a  poet,  and  an  anatomist,  besides  being  one 
of  the  greatest  painters  of  his  age.  The  Prince  of  Painters  was 
a  courtier,  a  lover,  and  fond  of  dress  and  company.  Michael 
Angelo  was  a  prodigy  of  versatility  of  talent — a  writer  of  Son 


142  TABLE  TALK. 


nets  (which  Wordsworth  has  thought  worth  translating)  and  the 
friend  of  Dante.  Salvator  was  a  lutenist  and  a  satirist.  Titian 
was  an  elegant  letter-writer,  and  a  finished  gentleman.  Sir 
Joshua  Reynolds's  Discourses  are  more  polished  and  classical 
even  than  any  of  his  pictures.  Let  a  man  do  all  he  can  in  any 
one  branch  of  study,  he  must  either  exhaust  himself  and  doze 
over  it,  or  vary  his  pursuit,  or  else  lie  idle.  All  our  real  labour 
lies  in  a  nut-shell.  The  mind  makes,  at  some  period  or  other, 
one  Herculean  effort,  and  the  rest  is  mechanical.  We  have  to 
climb  a  steep  and  narrow  precipice  at  first ;  but  after  that,  the 
way  is  broad  and  easy,  where  we  may  drive  several  accomplish- 
ments abreast.  Men  should  have  one  principal  pursuit,  which 
may  be  both  agreeably  and  advantageously  diversified  with  other 
lighter  ones,  as  the  subordinate  parts  of  a  picture  may  be  ma- 
naged so  as  to  give  effect  to  the  centre  group.  It  has  been  ob- 
served by  a  sensible  man,*  that  the  having  a  regular  occupation 
or  professional  duties  to  attend  to  is  no  excuse  for  putting  forth 
an  inelegant  or  inaccurate  work ;  for  a  habit  of  industry  braces 
and  strengthens  the  mind,  and  enables  it  to  wield  its  energies 
with  additional  ease  and  steadier  purpose.  Were  I  allowed  to 
instance  in  myself,  if  what  I  write  at  present  is  worth  nothing,  at. 
least  it  costs  me  nothing.  But  it  cost  me  a  great  deal  twenty 
years  ago.  I  have  added  little  to  my  stock  since  then,  and  taken 
little  from  it.  I  "  unfold  the  book  and  volume  of  the  brain,"  and 
transcribe  the  characters  I  see  there  as  mechanically  as  any  one 
might  copy  the  letters  in  a  sampler.  I  do  not  say  they  came 
there  mechanically — I  transfer  them  to  the  paper  mechanically. 
After  eight  or  ten  years'  hard  study,  an  author  (at  least)  may  go 
to  sleep. 

I  do  not  conceive  rapidity  of  execution  necessarily  implies  slo- 
venliness or  crudeness.  On  the  contrary,  I  believe  it  is  often 
productive  both  of  sharpness  and  freedom.  The  eagerness  of 
composition  strikes  out  sparkles  of  fancy,  and  runs  the  thoughts 
more  naturally  and  closely  into  one  another.  There  may  be 
less  formal  method,  but  there  is  more  life  and  spirit  and  truth. 
In  the  play  and  agitation  of  the  mind,  it  runs  over,  and  we  dally 

•  The  Rev.  W.  Shepherd  of  Gateacre,  in  the  Preface  to  his  Life  of  Poggio. 


ON  APPLICATION  TO  STUDY.  143 

with  the  subject,  as  the  glass-blower  rapidly  shapes  the  vitreous 
fluid.  A  number  of  new  thoughts  rise  up  spontaneously,  and 
hey  come  in  the  proper  places,  because  they  arise  from  the  oc- 
casion. They  are  also  sure  to  partake  of  the  warmth  and  vivid- 
ness of  that  ebullition  of  mind,  from  which  they  spring.  Spirilus 
precipitandus  est.  In  these  sort  of  voluntaries  in  composition,  the 
thoughts  are  worked  up  to  a  state  of  projection  :  the  grasp  of  the 
subject,  the  presence  of  mind,  the  flow  of  expression  must  be 
something  akin  to  extempore  speaking  ;  or  perhaps  such  bold  but 
finished  draughts  may  be  compared  to  fresco  paintings,  which 
imply  a  life  of  study  and  great  previous  preparation,  but  of 
which  the  execution  is  momentary  and  irrevocable.  I  will  add 
a  single  remark  on  a  point  that  has  been  much  disputed.  Mr. 
Cobbett  lays  it  down  that  the  first  word  that  occurs  is  always  the 
best.  I  would  venture  to  differ  from  so  great  an  authority.  Mr. 
Cobbett  himself  indeed  writes  as  easily  and  as  well  as  he  talks  ; 
but  he  perhaps  is  hardly  a  rule  for  others  without  his  practice 
and  without  his  ability.  In  the  hurry  of  composition  three  or 
four  words  may  present  themselves,  one  on  the  back  of  the  other, 
and  the  last  may  be  the  best  and  right  one.  I  grant  thus  much, 
that  it  is  in  vain  to  seek  for  the  word  we  want,  or  endeavour  to 
get  at  it  second-hand,  or  as  a  paraphrase  on  some  other  word — 
it  must  come  of  itself,  or  arise  out  of  an  immediate  impression 
or  lively  intuition  of  the  subject ;  that  is,  the  proper  word  must 
be  suggested  immediately  by  the  thought,  but  it  need  not  be  pre 
sented  as  soon  as  called  for.  It  is  the  same  in  trying  to  recol- 
lect the  names  of  places,  persons,  &c,  where  we  cannot  force 
our  memory ;  they  must  come  of  themselves  by  natural  associa- 
tion, as  it  were ;  but  they  may  occur  to  us  when  we  least  think 
of  it,  owing  to  some  casual  circumstance  or  link  of  connection, 
and  long  after  we  have  given  up  the  search.  Proper  expressions 
rise  to  the  surface  from  the  heat  and  fermentation  of  the  mind, 
like  bubbles  on  an  agitated  stream.  It  is  this  which  produces  a 
clear  and  sparkling  style. 

In  painting,  great  execution  supplies  the  place  of  high  finish- 
ing. A  few  vigorous  touches,  properly  and  rapidly  disposed, 
will  often  give  more  of  the  appearance  and  texture  (even)  of  na- 
tural objects  than  the  most  heavy  and  laborious  details.     But  this 


144  TABLE  TALK. 


masterly  style  of  execution  is  very  different  from  coarse  daubing. 
I  do  not  think,  however,  that  the  pains  or  polish  an  artist  bestowa 
upon  his  works  necessarily  interferes  with  their  number.  He 
only  grows  more  enamoured  of  his  task,  proportionably  patient, 
indefatigable,  and  devotes  more  of  the  day  to  study.  The  time 
we  lose  is  not  in  overdoing  what  we  are  about,'  but  in  doing 
nothing.  Rubens  had  great  facility  of  execution,  and  seldom 
went  into  the  details.  Yet  Raphael,  whose  oil-pictures  were 
exact  and  laboured,  achieved,  according  to  the  length  of 
time  he  lived,  very  nearly  as  much  as  he.  In  filling  up  the 
parts  of  his  pictures,  and  giving  them  the  last  perfection  they 
were  capable  of,  he  filled  up  his  leisure  hours,  which  other- 
wise would  have  lain  idle  on  his  hands.  I  have  sometimes  ac- 
counted for  the  slow  progress  of  certain  artists  from  the  unfinish- 
ed state  in  which  they  have  left  their  works  at  last.  These  were 
evidently  done  by  fits  and  throes — there  was  no  appearance  of 
continuous  labour — one  figure  had  been  thrown  in  at  a  venture, 
and  then  another ;  and  in  the  intervals  between  these  convulsive 
and  random  efforts,  more  time  had  been  wasted  than  could  have 
been  spent  in  working  up  each  individual  figure  on  the  sure 
principles  of  art,  and  by  a  careful  inspection  of  nature,  to  the  ut- 
most point  of  practicable  perfection. 

Some  persons  are  afraid  of  their  own  works  ;  and  having  made 
one  or  two  successful  efforts,  attempt  nothing  ever  after.  They 
stand  still  midway  in  the  road  to  fame,  from  being  startled  at 
the  shadow  of  their  own  reputation.  This  is  a  needless  alarm. 
If  what  they  have  already  done  possesses  real  power,  this  will 
increase  with  exercise  ;  if  it  has  not  this  power,  it  is  not  suffici- 
ent to  ensure  them  lasting  fame.  Such  delicate  pretenders  trem- 
ble on  the  brink  of  ideal  perfection,  like  dew-drops  on  the  edge 
of  flowers ;  and  are  fascinated,  like  so  many  Narcissuses,  with 
the  image  of  themselves,  reflected  from  the  public  admiration. 
It  is  seldom  indeed,  that  this  cautious  repose  will  answer  its  end. 
While  seeking  to  sustain  our  reputation  at  the  height,  we  are  for- 
gotten. Shakespear  gave  different  advice,  and  himself  acted 
upon  it. 

"  Perseverance,  dear  my  lord, 

Keeps  honour  bright.    To  have  done,  is  to  hang 


ON  APPLICATION  TO  STUDY.  145 

Quite  out  of  fashion,  like  a  rusty  mail, 

In  monumenial  mockery.     Take  the  instant  way , 

For  honour  travels  in  a  strait  so  narrow, 

Where  one  but  goes  abreast.     Keep  then  the  path ; 

For  emulation  hath  a  thousand  sons, 

That  one  by  one  pursue.     If  you  give  way, 

Or  hedge  aside  from  the  direct  forth-right, 

Like  to  an  enter'd  tide,  they  all  rush  by, 

And  leave  you  hindmost : — 

Or  like  a  gallant  horse,  fall'n  in  first  rank, 

Lie  there  for  pavement  to  the  abject  rear, 

O'er-run  and  trampled.     Then  what  they  do  in  present, 

Though  less  than  yours  in  past,  must  o'ertop  yours: 

For  time  is  like  a  fashionable  host, 

That  slightly  shakes  his  parting  guest  by  the  hand, 

And  with  his  arms  outstretch'd  as  he  would  fly, 

Grasps  in  the  comer.     Welcome  ever  smiles, 

And  farewell  goes  out  sighing.     O  let  not  virtue  seek 

Remuneration  for  the  thing  it  was ;  for  beauty,  wit, 

High  birth,  vigour  of  bone,  desert  in  service, 

Love,  friendship,  charity,  are  subjects  all 

To  envious  and  calumniating  Time. 

One  touch  of  nature  makes  the  whole  world  kin, 

That  all  with  one  consent  praise  new-born  gauds, 

Though  they  are  made  and  moulded  of  things  past ; 

And  give  to  dust  that  is  a  little  gilt 

More  laud  than  gilt  o'er  dusted. 

The  present  eye  praises  the  present  object." 

Troilus  and  Crersida. 

1  cannot  very  well  conceive  how  it  is  that  some  writers  (even 
of  taste  and  genius)  spend  whole  years  in  mere  corrections  for 
the  press,  as  it  were — in  polishing  a  line  or  adjusting  a  comma. 
They  take  long  to  consider,  exactly  as  there  is  nothing  worth  the 
trouble  of  a  moment's  thought ;  and  the  more  they  deliberate,  the 
farther  they  are  from  deciding  :  for  their  fastidiousness  increases 
with  the  indulgence  of  it,  nor  is  there  any  real  ground  for  pre- 
ference. They  are  in  the  situation  of  Ned  Softly  in  the  Tatlek, 
who  was  a  whole  morning  debating  whether  a  line  of  poetical 
epistle  should  run — 

You  sing  your  song  wi.h  so  much  art ;" 
7* 


146  TABLE  TALK. 


or, 

"  Your  song  you  sing  with  so  much  art." 

These  are  points  that  it  is  impossible  ever  to  come  to  a  .^termi- 
nation about ;  and  it  is  only  a  proof  of  a  little  mind  ever  to  have 
entertained  the  question  at  all. 

There  is  a  class  of  persons  whose  minds  seem  to  move  in  an 
element  of  littleness  ;  or  rather,  that  are  entangled  in  trifling 
difficulties,  and  incapable  of  extricating  themselves  from  them. 
There  was  a  remarkable  instance  of  this  improgressive,  ineffec- 
tual, restless  activity  of  temper  in  a  late  celebrated  and  very  in- 
genious landscape-painter.  "  Never  ending,  still  beginning,"  his 
mind  seemed  entirely  made  up  of  points  and  fractions,  nor  could 
he  by  any  means  arrive  at  a  conclusion  or  a  valuable  whole.  He 
made  it  his  boast  that  he  never  sat  with  his  hands  before  him,  and 
yet  he  never  did  anything.  His  powers  and  his  time  were  frit- 
tered away  in  an  importunate,  uneasy,  fidgetty  attention  to  little 
things.  The  first  picture  he  ever  painted  (when  a  mere  boy)  was 
a  copy  of  his  father's  house  ;  and  he  began  it  by  counting  the 
number  of  bricks  in  the  front  upwards  and  lengthways,  and  then 
made  a  scale  of  them  on  his  canvas.  This  literal  style  and  mode 
of  study  stuck  to  him  to  the  last.  He  was  placed  under  Wilson, 
whose  example  (if  anything  could)  might  have  cured  him  of  this 
pettiness  of  conception  ;  but  nature  prevailed,  as  it  almost  always 
does.  To  take  pains  to  no  purpose,  seemed  to  be  his  motto,  and 
the  delight  of  his  life.  He  left  (when  he  died,  not  long  ago)  heaps 
of  canvasses  with  elaborately  finished  pencil  outlines  on  them,  and 
with  perhaps  a  little  dead-colouring  added  here  and  there.  In  this 
state  they  were  thrown  aside,  as  if  he  grew  tired  of  his  occupation 
the  instant  it  gave  a  promise  of  turning  to  account,  and  his  whole 
object  in  the  pursuit  of  art  was  to  erect  scaffoldings.  The  same 
intense  interest  in  the  most  frivolous  things  extended  to  the  com- 
mon concerns  of  life,  to  the  arranging  of  his  letters,  the  labelling 
of  his  books,  and  the  inventory  of  his  wardrobe.  Yet  he  was  a 
man  of  sense,  who  saw  the  folly  and  the  waste  of  time  in  all  this, 
and  could  warn  others  against  it.  The  perceiving  our  own  weak- 
nesses enables  us  to  give  others  excellent  advice,  but  it  does  not 
teach  us  to  reform  them  ourselves.     "  Physician,  heal  thyself  1" 


ON  APPLICATION  TO  STUDY.  147 


is  the  hardest  lesson  to  follow.  Nobody  knew  better  than  our 
artist  that  repose  is  necessary  to  great  efforts,  and  that  he  who  is 
never  idle,  labours  in  vain  ! 

Another  error  is  to  spend  one's  life  in  procrastination  and 
preparations  for  the  future.  Persons  of  this  turn  of  mind  stop 
at  the  threshold  of  art,  and  accumulate  the  means  of  improve- 
ment, till  they  obstruct  their  progress  to  the  end.  They  are 
always  putting  off  the  evil  day,  and  excuse  themselves  for  doing 
nothing  by  commencing  some  new  and  indispensable  course  of 
study.  Their  projects  are  magnificent,  but  remote,  and  require 
years  to  complete  or  to  put  them  in  execution.  Fame  is  seen  in 
the  horizon,  and  flies  before  them.  Like  the  recreant  boastful 
knight  in  Spenser,  they  turn  their  backs  on  their  competitors  to 
make  a  great  career,  but  never  return  to  the  charge.  They 
make  themselves  masters  of  anatomy,  of  drawing,  of  perspec- 
tive :  they  collect  prints,  casts,  medallions,  make  studies  of 
heads,  of  hands,  of  the  bones,  the  muscles  ;  copy  pictures  ;  visit 
Italy,  Greece,  and  return  as  they  went.  They  fulfil  the  proverb, 
"  When  you  are  at  Rome,  you  must  do  as  those  at  Rome  do." 
This  circuitous,  erratic  pursuit  of  art  can  come  to  no  good.  It 
is  only  an  apology  for  idleness  and  vanity.  Foreign  travel  es- 
pecially makes  men  pedants,  not  artists.  What  we  seek,  we 
must  find  at  home,  or  nowhere.  The  way  to  do  great  things  is 
to  set  about  something,  and  he  who  cannot  find  resources  in  him- 
self or  in  his  own  painting- room,  will  perform  the  Grand  Tour, 
or  go  through  the  circle  of  the  arts  and  sciences,  and  end  just 
where  he  began ! 

The  same  remarks  that  have  been  here  urged  with  respect  to 
an  application  to  the  study  of  art,  will  in  a  great  measure 
(though  not  in  every  particular,)  apply  to  an  attention  to  busi- 
ness :  I  mean,  that  exertion  will  generally  follow  success  and 
opportunity  in  the  one,  as  it  does  confidence  and  talent  in  the 
other.  Give  a  man  a  motive  to  work,  and  he  will  work.  A 
lawyer  who  is  regularly  feed,  seldom  neglects  to  look  over  his 
briefs :  the  more  business,  the  more  industry.  The  stress  laid 
upon  early  rising  is  preposterous.  If  we  have  any  thing  to  do 
when  we  get  up,  we  shall  not  lie  in  bed,  to  a  certainty.  Thom- 
son the  poet  was  found  late  in  bed  by  Dr.  Burney,  and  asked 


148  TABLE  TALK. 


why  he  had  not  risen  earlier.  The  Scotchman  wisely  answered. 
"  I  had  no  motive,  young  man !"  What,  indeed,  had  he  to  do 
after  writing  the  Seasons,  but  to  dream  out  the  rest  of  his  exist- 
ence, or  employ  it  in  writing  the  Castle  of  Indolence  !* 

*  School-boys  attend  to  their  tasks  as  soon  as  they  acquire  a  relish  for  study, 
and  they  apply  to  that  for  which  they  find  they  have  a  capacity.  If  a  boy 
shows  no  inclination  for  the  Latin  tongue,  it  is  a  sign  he  has  not  a  turn  for 
learning  languages.  Yet  he  dances  well.  Give  up  the  thought  of  making  a 
scholar  of  him,  and  bring  him  up  to  be  a  dancing-master ! 


ON  THE  OLD  AGE  OP  ARTISTS.  149 


ESSAY  XIV. 

On  the  Old  Age  of  Artists. 

"  And  their  old  age  is  beautiful  and  free." 

Wordsworth. 

Me.  Nollekens  died  the  other  day  at  the  age  of  eighty,  and 
left  240,000  pounds  behind  him,  and  the  name  of  one  of  our 
best  English  sculptors.  There  was  a  great  scramble  among  the 
legatees,  a  codicil  to  a  will  with  large  bequests  unsigned,  and 
that  last  triumph  of  the  dead  or  dying  over  those  who  survive — 
hopes  raised  and  defeated  without  a  possibility  of  retaliation,  or 
the  smallest  use  in  complaint.  The  King  was  at  first  said  to  be 
left  residuary  legatee.  This  would  have  been  a  fine  instance  of 
romantic  and  gratuitous  homage  to  Majesty,  in  a  man  who  all 
his  life-time  could  never  be  made  to  comprehend  the  abstract 
idea  of  the  distinction  of  ranks  or  even  of  persons.  He  would 
go  up  to  the  Duke  of  York  or  Prince  of  Wales  (in  spite  of 
warning),  take  them  familiarly  by  the  button  like  common  ac- 
quaintance, ask  them  how  their  father  did  ;  and  express  pleasure 
at  hearing  he  was  well,  saying,  "  when  he  was  gone,  we  should 
never  get  such  another."  He  once,  when  the  old  king  was  sit- 
ting to  him  for  his  bust,  fairly  stuck  a  pair  of  compasses  into  his 
nose  to  measure  the  distance  from  the  upper  lip  to  the  forehead, 
as  if  he  had  been  measuring  a  block  of  marble.  His  late  Ma- 
jesty laughed  heartily  at  this,  and  was  amused  to  find  that  there 
was  a  person  in  the  world,  ignorant  of  the  vast  interval  which 
separated  him  from  every  other  man.  Nollekens,  with  all  his 
loyalty,  merely  liked  the  man,  and  cared  nothing  about  the 
King  (which  was  one  of  those  mixed  modes,  as  Mr.  Locke  calls 
them,  of  which  he  had  no  more  idea  than  if  he  had  been  one  of 
the  cream-coloured  horses) — handled  him  like  so  much  common 
clav^  and  had  no  other  notion  of  the  matter,  but  that  it  was  hia 


150  TABLE  TALK. 


business  to  make  the  best  bust  of  him  he  possibly  could,  and  to 
set  about  it  in  the  regular  way.  There  was  something  in  this 
plainness  and  simplicity  that  savoured  perhaps  of  the  hardness 
and  dryness  of  his  art,  and  of  his  own  peculiar  severity  of  man-, 
ner.  He  conceived  that  one  man's  head  differed  from  another's 
only  as  it  was  a  better  or  worse  subject  for  modelling ;  that  a 
Dad  bust  was  not  made  into  a  good  one  by  being  stuck  upon  a 
pedestal,  or  by  any  painting  or  varnishing ;  and  that  by  what- 
ever name  he  was  called,  "a  man's  a  man  for  a' that."  A 
sculptor's  ideas  must,  I  should  guess,  be  somewhat  rigid  and  in- 
flexible, like  the  materials  in  which  he  works.  Besides,  Nolle- 
kens's  style  was  comparatively  hard  and  edgy.  He  had  as 
much  truth  and  character,  but  none  of  the  polished  graces  or 
transparent  softness  of  Chantrey.  He  had  more  of  the  rough, 
plain,  downright  honesty  of  his  art.  It  seemed  to  be  his  char- 
acter. Mr.  Northcote  was  once  complimenting  him  on  his  ac- 
knowledged superiority — "  Ay,  you  made  the  best  busts  of  any 
body !"  "  I  don't  know  about  that,"  said  the  other,  his  eyes 
(though  their  orbs  were  quenched,)  smiling  with  a  gleam  of 
smothered  delight — "  I  only  know  I  always  tried  to  make  them 
as  like  as  I  could." 

I  saw  this  eminent  and  singular  person  one  morning  in  Mr. 
Northcote's  painting-room.  He  had  then  been  for  some  trme 
nearly  blind,  and  had  been  obliged  to  lay  aside  the  exercise  of 
his  profession ;  but  he  still  took  a  pleasure  in  designing  groups, 
and  in  giving  directions  to  others  for  executing  them.  He  and 
Northcote  made  a  remarkable  pair.  He  sat  down  on  a  low  stool 
(from  being  rather  fatigued)  rested  with  both  hands  on  a  stick, 
as  if  he  clung  to  the  solid  and  tangible ;  had  an  habitual  twitch 
in  his  limbs  and  motions,  as  if  catching  himself  in  the  act  of 
going  too  far  in  chiselling  a  lip  or  a  dimple  in  a  chin  ;  was  bolt- 
upright,  with  features  hard  and  square,  but  finely  cut,  a  hooked 
nose,  thin  lips,  an  indented  forehead  ;  and  the  defect  in  his  sight 
completed  his  resemblance  to  one  of  his  own  masterly  busts.  He 
seemed,  by  time  and  labour,  to  "  have  wrought  himself  to  stone." 
Northcote  stood  by  his  side — all  air  and  spirit,  stooping  down  to 
speak  to  him.  The  painter  was  in  a  loose  morning-gown,  with 
his  back  to  the  light ;  his  face  was  like  a  pale  fine  piece  of  co- 


ON  THE  OLD  AGE  OF  ARTISTS.  151 

louring  ;  and  his  eye  came  out  and  glanced  through  the  twilight 
of  the  past,  like  an  old  eagle  looking  from  its  eyrie  in  the  clouds. 
In  a  moment  they  had  lighted  from  the  top  of  Mount  Cenis  in  the 
Vatican — 

"  As  when  a  vulture  on  Imaus  bred 

Flies  tow'rds  the  springs 

Of  Ganges  and  Hydaspes,  Indian  streams," 

these  two  fine  old  men  lighted  with  winged  thoughts  on  the  banks 
of  the  Tiber,  and  there  bathed  and  drank  of  the  spirit  of  their 
youth.  They  talked  of  Titian  and  Bernini;  and  Northcote 
mentioned,  that  when  Roubilliac  came  back  from  Rome,  after 
seeing  the  works  of  the  latter,  and  went  to  look  at  his  own  in 
Westminster  Abbey,  he  said,  "  By  G-d,  they  looked  like  tobacco- 
pipes." 

They  then  recalled  a  number  of  anecdotes  of  Day  (a  fellow- 
student  of  theirs,)  of  Barry  and  Fuseli,  Sir  Joshua  and  Burke 
and  Johnson,  were  talked  of.  The  names  of  these  great  sons  of 
memory  were  in  the  room,  and  they  almost  seemed  to  answer  to 
them — Genius  and  Fame  flung  a  spell  into  the  air, 

"And  by  the  force  of  blear  illusion, 
Had  drawn  me  on  to  my  confusion," 

had  I  not  been  long  ere  this  siren-proqf !  It  is  delightful,  though 
painful,  to  hear  two  veterans  in  art  thus  talking  over  the  adven- 
tures and  studies  of  their  youth,  when  one  feels  that  they  are  not 
quite  mortal,  that  they  have  one  imperishable  part  about  them, 
and  that  they  are  conscious,  as  they  approach  the  farthest  verge 
of  humanity  in  friendly  intercourse  and  tranquil  decay,  that  they 
have  done  something  that  will  live  after  them.  The  consolations 
of  religion  apart,  this  is  perhaps  the  only  salve  that  takes  out  the 
sung  of  that  sore  evil,  Death  ;  and  by  lessening  the  impatience 
and  alarm  at  his  approach,  often  tempts  him  to  prolong  the  term 
of  his  absence. 

It  has  been  remarked  that  artists,  or  at  least  academicians, 
live  long.  It  is  but  a  short  while  ago  that  Northcote,  Nollekens, 
West,  Flaxman,  Cosway,  and  Fuseli,  were  all  living  at  the  same 
time  in  good  health  and  spirits,  without  any  diminution  of  facul- 


153  TABLE  TALK. 


ties,  all  of  them  having  long  past  their  grand  climacteric,  and 
attained  to  the  highest  reputation  in  their  several  departments. 
From  these  striking  examples,  the  diploma  of  a  Royal  Academi- 
cian seems  to  be  a  grant  of  a  longer  lease  of  life,  among  its 
other  advantages.  In  fact,  it  is  tantamount  to  the  conferring  a 
certain  reputation  in  his  profession  and  a  competence  on  any 
man,  and  thus  supplies  the  wants  of  the  body,  and  sets  his  mind 
at  ease.  Artists  in  general,  (poor  devils !)  I  am  afraid,  are  not  a 
long-lived  race.  They  break  up  commonly  about  forty,  their 
spirits  giving  way  with  the  disappointment  of  their  hopes  of  ex- 
cellence, or  the  want  of  encouragement  for  that  which  they  have 
attained,  their  plans  disconcerted,  and  their  affairs  irretrievable  ; 
and  in  this  state  of  mortification  and  embarrassment  (more  or  less 
prolonged  and  aggravated)  they  are  either  starved  or  else  drink 
themselves  to  death.  But  your  Academician  is  quite  a  different 
person.  He  "  bears  a  charmed  life,  that  must  not  yield"  to 
duns,  or  critics,  or  patrons.  He  is  free  of  Parnassus,  and  claims 
all  the  immunities  of  fame  in  his  life-time.  He  has  but  to  paint 
(as  the  sun  has  but  to  shine)  to  baffle  envious  maligners.  He  has 
but  to  send  his  pictures  to  the  Exhibition  at  Somerset-House,  in 
order  to  have  them  hung  up  :  he  has  but  to  dine  once  a  year  with 
the  Academy,  the  Nobility,  the  Cabinet- Ministers,  and  the  Mem- 
bers of  the  Royal  Family,  in  order  not  to  want  a  dinner  all  the 
rest  of  the  year.  Shall  hunger  come  near  the  man  that  has 
feasted  with  princes — shall  a  bailiff  tap  the  shoulder  on  which  a 
Marquis  has  familiarly  leaned,  that  has  been  dubbed  with  knight- 
hood 1  No,  even  "  the  fell  Serjeant  Death"  stands  as  it  were 
aloof;  and  he  enjoys  a  kind  of  premature  immortality  in  recorded 
honours  and  endless  labours.  Oh  !  what  golden  hours  are  his ! 
In  the  short  days  of  winter  he  husbands  time  ;  the  long  evenings 
of  summer  still  find  him  employed !  He  paints  on,  and  takes  no 
thought  for  to-morrow.  All  is  right  in  that  respect.  His  bills  are 
regularly  paid  ;  his  drafts  are  duly  honoured.  He  has  exercise 
for  his  body,  employment  for  his  mind  in  his  profession,  and 
without  ever  stirring  out  of  his  painting- room.  He  studies  as 
much  of  other  things  as  he  pleases.  He  joes  into  the  best  com- 
pany, or  talks  with  his  sitters — attends  at  the  Academy  Meetings, 
and  enters  into  their  intrigues  and  cabaLs,  or  stays  at  acme,  and 


ON  THE  OLD  AGE  OF  ARTISTS.  153 

enjoys  the  oiium  cum  dignitate.  If  he  is  fond  of  reputation,  Fame 
watches  him  at  work,  and  weaves  a  woof,  like  Iris,  over  his  head — ■ 
if  he  is  fond  of  money,  Plutus  digs  a  mine  under  his  feet.  What- 
ever he  touches  becomes  gold.  He  is  paid  half-price  before  he 
begins  ;  and  commissions  pour  in  upon  commissions.  His  por- 
traits are  like,  and  his  historical  pieces  fine  ;  for  to  question  the 
talents  or  success  of  a  Royal  Academician  is  to  betray  your  own 
want  of  taste.  Or  if  his  pictures  are  not  quite  approved,  he  is 
an  agreeable  man,  and  converses  well.  Or  he  is  a  person  of 
elegant  accomplishments,  dresses  well,  and  is  an  ornament  to  a 
private  circle.  A  man  is  not  an  Academician  for  nothing. 
"  His  life  spins  round  on  its  soft  axle  ;"  and  in  the  lapse  of 
uninterrupted  thoughts  and  pleasing  avocations,  without  any  of 
the  wear  and  tear  of  the  world  or  of  business,  there  seems  no 
reason  why  it  should  not  run  smoothly  on  to  its  last  sand! 

Of  all  the  Academicians,  the  painters,  or  persons  I  have  ever 
known,  Mr.  Northcote  is  the  most  to  my  taste.  It  may  be  said  of 
him  truly, 

"  Age  cannot  wither,  nor  custom  stale 
His  infinite  variety." 

Indeed,  it  is  not  possible  he  should  become  tedious,  since,  even  if 
he  repeats  the  same  thing,  it  appears  quite  new  from  his  manner, 
that  breathes  new  life  into  it,  and  from  his  eye,  that  is  as  fresh  as 
the  morning.  How  you  hate  any  one  who  tells  the  same  story  or 
anticipates  a  remark  of  his — it  seems  so  coarse  and  vulgar,  so  dry 
and  inanimate  !  There  is  something  like  injustice  in  this  prefer- 
ence— but  no  !  it  is  a  tribute  to  the  spirit  that  is  in  the  man.  Mr. 
Northcote's  manner  is  completely  extempore.  It  is  just  the  reverse 
of  Mr.  Canning's  oratory.  All  his  thoughts  come  upon  him  un- 
awares, and  for  this  reason  they  surprise  and  delight  you,  because 
they  have  evidently  the  same  effect  upon  his  own  mind.  There 
is  the  same  unconsciousness  in  his  conversation  that  has  been 
pointed  out  in  Shakespear's  dialogues ;  or  you  are  startled  with 
one  observation  after  another,  as  when  the  mist  gradually  with- 
draws from  a  landscape  and  unfolds  a  number  of  objects  one  by 
one.  His  figure  is  small,  shadowy,  emaciated  ;  but  you  think 
only  of  his  face,  which  is  fine  and  expressive.    His  body  is  out  of 


154  TABLE  TALK. 


the  question.  It  is  impossible  to  convey  an  adequate  idea  of  the 
naivety,  and  unaffected,  but  delightful  ease  of  the  way  in  which 
he  goes  on — now  touching  upon  a  picture — now  looking  for  his 
snuff-box — now  alluding  to  some  book  he  has  been  reading — now 
returning  to  his  favourite  art.  He  seems  just  as  if  he  was  by 
himself  or  in  the  company  of  his  own  thoughts,  and  makes  you 
feel  quite  at  home.  If  it  is  a  Member  of  Parliament,  or  a  beau- 
tiful woman,  or  a  child,  or  a  young  artist  that  drops  in,  it  makes 
no  difference  ;  he  enters  into  conversation  with  them  in  the  same 
unconstrained  manner,  as  if  they  were  inmates  in  his  family. 
Sometimes  you  find  him  sitting  on  the  floor,  like  a  school-boy  at 
play,  turning  over  a  set  of  old  prints  ;  and  I  was  pleased  to  hear 
him  say  the  other  day,  coming  to  one  of  some  men  putting  off  in 
a  boat  from  a  shipwreck — "  That  is  the  grandest  and  most  original 
thing  I  ever  did !"  This  was  not  egotism,  but  had  all  the  beauty 
of  truth  and  sincerity.  The  print  was  indeed  a  noble  and  spirited 
design.  The  circumstance  from  which  it  was  taken  happened  to 
Captain  Englefield  and  his  crew.  He  told  Northcote  the  story, 
sat  for  his  own  head,  and  brought  the  men  from  Wapping  to  sit  for 
theirs  ;  and  these  he  had  arranged  into  a  formal  composition,  till 
one  Jeffrey,  a  conceited  but  clever  artist  of  that  day,  called  in 
upon  him  and  said,  "  Oh  !  that  common- place  thing  will  never  do, 
it  is  like  West ;  you  should  throw  them  into  an  action  something 
like  this." — Accordingly,  the  head  of  the  boat  was  reared  up  like 
a  sea-horse  riding  the  waves,  and  the  elements  put  into  commotion ; 
and  when  the  painter  looked  at  it  the  last  thing  as  he  went  out  of 
his  room  in  the  dusk  of  the  evening,  he  said  that  "  it  frightened 
him."  He  retained  the  expression  in  the  faces  of  the  men  nearly 
as  they  sat  to  him.  It  is  very  fine,  and  truly  English  ;  and  being 
natural,  it  was  easily  made  into  history.  There  is  a  portrait  of  a 
young  gentleman  striving  to  get  into  the  boat,  while  the  crew  are 
pushing  him  off  with  their  oars ;  but  at  last  he  prevailed  with 
them  by  lis  perseverance  and  entreaties  to  be  taken  in.  They 
had  only  time  to  throw  a  bag  of  biscuits  into  the  boat  before  the 
ship  went  down  ;  which  they  divided  into  a  biscuit  a  day  for  each 
man,  dipping  them  into  water  which  they  collected  by  holding  up 
their  handkerchiefs  in  the  rain  and  squeezing  it  into  a  bottle 
They  were  out  sixteen  days  in  the  Atlantic,  and  got  ashore  at 


ON  THE  OLD  AGE  OF  ARTISTS.  155 

some  place  in  Spain,  where  the  great  difficulty  was  to  prevent 
them  from  eating  too  much  at  once,  so  as  to  recover  gradually. 
Captain  Englefield  observed  that  he  suffered  more  afterwards  than 
at  the  time — that  he  had  horrid  dreams  of  falling  down  precipices 
for  a  long  while  after — that  in  the  boat  they  told  merry  stories, 
and  kept  up  one  another's  spirits  as  well  as  they  could,  and  on 
some  complaint  being  made  of  their  distressed  situation,  the  young 
gentleman  who  had  been  admitted  into  their  crew  remarked; 
M  Nay,  we  are  not  so  badly  off  neither,  we  are  not  come  to  eating 
one  another  yet !"— Thus,  whatever  is  the  subject,  the  scene  is 
revived  in  Mr.  Northcote's  mind,  and  every  circumstance  brought 
before  you  without  affectation  or  effort,  just  as  it  happened.  It 
might  be  called  picture-talking.  He  has  always  some  apt  allusion 
or  anecdote.  A  young  engraver  came  into  his  room  the  other 
day,  with  a  print  which  he  had  put  into  the  crown  of  his  hat,  in 
order  not  to  crumple  it,  and  he  said  it  had  been  nearly  blown 
away  several  times  in  passing  along  the  street.  "  You  put  me  in 
mind,"  said  Northcote,  "  of  a  bird-catcher  at  Plymouth,  who  used 
to  put  the  birds  he  had  caught  into  his  hat  to  bring-  them  home, 
and  one  day  meeting  my  father  in  the  road,  he  pulled  off  his  hat 
to  make  him  a  low  bow,  and  all  the  birds  flew  away !"  Some- 
times Mr.  Northcote  gets  to  the  top  of  a  ladder  to  paint  a  palm- 
tree  or  to  finish  a  sky  in  one  of  his  pictures ;  and  in  this  situation 
he  listens  very  attentively  to  any  thing  you  tell  him.  I  was  once 
mentioning  some  strange  inconsistencies  of  our  modern  poets  :  and 
on  coming  to  one  that  exceeded  the  rest,  he  descended  the  steps  of 
the  ladder  one  by  one,  laid  his  pallet  and  brushes  deliberately  on 
the  ground,  and  coming  up  to  me,  said — "  You  don't  say  so,  it's 
the  very  thing  1  should  have  supposed  of  them :  yet  these  are  the 
men  that  speak  against  Pope  and  Dryden."  Never  any  sarcasms 
were  so  fine,  so  cutting,  so  careless  as  his.  The  grossest  things 
from  his  lips  seem  an  essence  of  refinement :  the  most  refined 
became  more  so  than  ever.  Hear  him  talk  of  Pope's  Epistle  to 
Jervas,  and  repeat  the  lines — 

"  Yet  should  the  Graces  all  thy  figures  place, 
And  breathe  an  air  divine  on  every  face ; 
Yet  should  the  Muses  bid  my  numbers  roll 
Strong  as  their  charms,  and  gentle  as  their  soul, 


156  TABLE  TALK. 


With  Zeuxis'  Helen  thy  Bridgewater  Tie, 
And  these  be  sung  till  Granville's  Myra  die : 
Alas !  how  little  from  the  grave  we  claim ; 
Thou  but  preserv'st  a  face,  and  I  a  name." 

Or  let  him  speak  of  Boccacio  and  his  story  of  Isabella  and  her 
pot  of  basil,  in  which  she  kept  her  lover's  head  and  watered  it 
with  her  tears,  "  and  how  it  grew,  and  it  g'rew,  and  it  grew,"  and 
you  see  his  own  eyes  glisten,  and  the  leaves  of  the  basil-tree 
tremble  to  his  faltering  accents  ! 

Mr.  Fuseli's  conversation  is  more  striking  and  extravagant,  but 
less  pleasing  and  natural  than  Mr.  Northcote's.  He  deals  in 
paradoxes  and  caricatures.  He  talks  allegories  and  personifica- 
tions, as  he  paints  them.  You  are  sensible  of  effort  without  any 
repose — no  careless  pleasantry — no  traits  of  character  or  touches 
from  nature — every  thing  is  laboured  or  overdone.  His  ideas 
are  gnarled,  hard,  and  distorted,  like  his  features — his  theories 
stalking  and  straddle-legged,  like  his  gait — his  projects  aspiring 
and  gigantic,  like  his  gestures — his  performance  uncouth  and 
dwarfish,  like  his  person.  His  pictures  are  also  like  himself, 
with  eye-balls  of  stone  stuck  in  rims  of  tin,  and  muscles  twisted 
together  like  ropes  or  wires.  Yet  Fuseli  is  undoubtedly  a  man 
of  genius,  and  capable  of  the  most  wild  and  grotesque  combina- 
tions of  fancy.  It  is  a  pity  that  he  ever  applied  himself  to  paint- 
ing, which  must  always  be  reduced  to  the  test  of  the  senses.  He 
is  a  little  like  Dante  or  Ariosto  perhaps  ;  but  no  more  like  Michael 
Angelo,  Raphael,  or  Correggio,  than  I  am.  Nature,  he  com- 
plains, puts  him  out.  Yet  he  can  laugh  at  artists  who  "  paint  la- 
dies with  iron  lap-dogs  ;"  and  he  describes  the  great  masters  of 
old  in  words  and  images  full  of  truth,  and  glancing  from  a  pen 
or  tongue  of  fire.  I  conceive  any  person  would  be  more  struck 
with  Mr.  Fuseli  at  first  sight,  but  would  wish  to  visit  Mr.  North- 
cote  oftener.  There  is  a  bold  and  startling  outline  in  his  style 
of  talking,  but  not  the  delicate  finishing  or  bland  tone  that  there 
is  in  that  of  the  latter.  Whatever  there  is  harsh  or  repulsive 
about  him  is,  however,  in  a  great  degree  carried  off  by  his  ani- 
mated foreign  accent  and  broken  English,  which  give  character 
where  there  ia  none,  and  soften  its  asperities  where  /'.  is  too  abrupt 
and  violent. 


ON  THE  OLD  AGE  OF  ARTISTS.  157 

Compared  to  either  of  these  artists,  Mr.  West  (the  late  Presi- 
dent of  the  Royal  Academy)  was  a  thoroughly  mechanical  and 
common-place  person — a  man  "  of  no  mark  or  likelihood."  He 
too  was  small,  thin,  but  with  regular  well-formed  features,  and  a 
precise,  sedate,  self-satisfied  air.  This,  in  part,  arose  from  the 
conviction  in  his  own  mind  that  he  was  the  greatest  painter  (and 
consequently  the  greatest  man)  in  the  world  ;  kings  and  nobles 
were  common  every-day  folks,  while  there  was  but  one  West  in 
the  many-peopled  globe.  If  there  was  any  one  individual  with 
whom  he  was  inclined  to  share  the  palm  of  undivided  superiority, 
it  was  with  Bonaparte.  When  Mr.  West  had  painted  a  pic- 
ture, he  thought  it  was  perfect.  He  had  no  idea  of  any  thing  in 
the  art  but  rules,  and  these  he  exactly  conformed  to ;  so  that,  ac- 
cording to  his  theory,  what  he  did  was  quite  right.  He  con- 
ceived of  painting  as  a  mechanical  or  scientific  process,  and  had 
no  more  doubt  of  a  face  or  a  group  in  one  of  his  high  ideal  com- 
positions being  what  it  ought  to  be,  than  a  carpenter  has  that  he 
has  drawn  a  line  straight  with  a  ruler  and  a  piece  of  chalk,  or 
than  a  mathematician  has  that  the  three  angles  of  a  triangle  are 
equal  to  two  right  ones. 

When  Mr.  West  walked  through  his  Gallery,  the  result  of  fifty 
years'  labour,  he  saw  nothing,  either  on  the  right  or  the  left,  to 
be  added  or  taken  away.  The  account  he  gave  of  his  own  pic- 
tures, which  might  seem  like  ostentation  or  rhodomontade,  had  a 
sincere  and  infantine  simplicity  in  it.  When  some  one  spoke  of 
his  St.  Paul  shaking  off  the  serpent  from  his  arm  (at  Greenwich 
Hospital,  I  believe,)  he  said,  "  A  little  burst  of  genius,  sir  !" 
West  was  one  of  those  happy  mortals  who  had  not  an  idea  of  any 
thing  beyond  himself  or  his  own  actual  powers  and  knowledge. 
The  whole  art  with  him  consisted  in  measuring  the  distance  from 
the  foot  to  the  knee,  in  counting  the  number  of  muscles  in  the 
calf  of  the  leg,  in  dividing  his  subject  into  three  groups,  in  lifting 
up  the  eyebrows  to  express  pity  or  wonder,  and  in  contracting 
them  to  express  anger  or  contempt.  Looking  at  a  picture  of  Ru- 
bens's,  which  he  had  in  his  possession,  he  said,  with  great  indiffer- 
ence, "  What  a  pity  that  this  man  wanted  expression !"  This 
natural  self-complacency  might  be  strengthened  by  collateral  cir- 
cumstances of  birth  and  religion.     West,  as  a  native  of  America, 


15b  TABLE  TALK. 


might  be  supposed  to  own  no  superior  in  the  commonwealth  of 
art :  as  a  Quaker,  he  smiled  with  sectarian  self-sufficiency  at  the 
objections  that  were  made  to  his  theory  or  practice  in  painting. 
He  lived  long  in  the  firm  persuasion  of  being  one  of  the  elect 
among  the  sons  of  Fame,  and  went  to  his  final  rest  in  the  arms 
of  Immortality  !     Happy  error  !     Enviable  old  man  ! 

Flaxman  is  another  living  and  eminent  artist,  who  is  distin- 
guished by  success  in  his  profession  and  by  a  prolonged  and  ac- 
tive old  age.  He  is  diminutive  in  person,  like  the  others.  I 
know  little  of  him,  but  that  he  is  an  elegant  sculptor,  and  a  pro- 
found mystic.  This  last  is  a  character  common  to  many  other 
artists  in  our  days — Loutherbourg,  Cosway,  Blake,  Sharp,  Var- 
ley,  &c. — who  seem  to  relieve  the  literalness  of  their  professional 
studies  by  voluntary  excursions  into  the  regions  of  the  preterna- 
tural, pass  their  time  between  sleeping  and  waking,  and  whose 
ideas  are  like  a  stormy  night,  with  the  clouds  driven  rapidly 
across,  and  the  blue  sky  and  stars  gleaming  between ! 

Cosway  is  the  last  of  these  I  shall  mention.  At  that  name  I 
pause,  and  must  be  excused  if  I  consecrate  to  him  a  frail  memo- 
rial in  my  careless  manner;  for  he  was  Fancy's  child.  What  a 
fairy  palace  was  his  of  specimens  of  art,  antiquarianism,  and 
vertu,  jumbled  all  together  in  the  richest  disorder,  dusty,  sha- 
dowy, obscure,  with  much  left  to  the  imagination  (how  different 
from  the  finical,  polished,  petty,  modernized  air  of  some  Collec- 
tions we  have  seen  !)  and  with  copies  of  the  Old  Masters,  cracked 
and  damaged,  which  he  touched  and  retouched  with  his  own 
hand,  and  yet  swore  they  were  the  genuine,  the  pure  originals. 
All  other  collectors  are  fools  to  him :  they  go  about  with  painful 
anxiety  to  find  out  the  realities : — he  said  he  had  them — and  in  a 
moment  made  them  of  the  breath  of  his  nostrils  and  of  the  fumes 
of  a  lively  imagination.  His  was  the  crucifix  that  Abelard 
prayed  to — a  lock  of  Eloisa's  hair — the  dagger  with  which  Fel- 
ton  stabbed  the  Duke  of  Buckingham — the  first  finished  sketch  of 
the  Jocunda — Titian's  large  colossal  profile  of  Peter  Aretine — a 
mummy  of  an  Egyptian  king — a  feather  of  a  phoenix — a  piece 
of  Noah's  Ark.  Were  the  articles  authentic  ?  What  matter  ? 
—his  faith  in  them  was  true.  He  was  gifted  with  a  second-sight 
in  such  matters :  he  believed  whatever  was  incredible      Fancy 


ON   THE  OLD  AGE  OF  ARTISTS.  159 

bore  sway  in  him ;  and  so  vivid  were  his  impressions,  that  they 
included  the  substances  of  things  in  them.  The  agreeable  and 
the  true  with  him  were  one.  He  believed  in  Swedenborgianism 
— he  believed  in  animal  magnetism — he  had  conversed  with  more 
than  one  person  of  the  Trinity — he  could  talk  with  his  lady  at 
Mantua  through  some  fine  vehicle  of  sense,  as  we  speak  to  a 
servant  down-stairs  through  a  conduit-pipe.  "Richard  Cosway 
was  not  the  man  to  flinch  from  an  ideal  proposition.  Once,  at 
an  Academy  dinner,  when  some  question  was  made  whether  the 
story  of  Lambert's  Leap  was  true,  he  started  up,  and  said  it  was ; 
for  he  was  the  person  that  performed  it : — he  once  assured  me 
that  the  knee-pan  of  King  James  I.,  in  the  ceiling  at  Whitehall, 
was  nine  feet  across  (he  had  measured  it  in  concert  with  Mr.  Ci- 
priani, who  was  repairing  the  figures) — he  could  read  in  the  Book 
of  the  Revelations  without  spectacles,  and  foretold  the  return  of 
Bonaparte  from  Elba — and  from  St.  Helena !  His  wife,  the  most 
ladylike  of  Englishwomen,  being  asked  in  Paris  what  sort  of  a 
man  her  husband  was,  made  answer — "  Toujours  riant,  toujours 
gaV.  This  was  his  character.  He  must  have  been  of  French 
extraction.  His  soul  appeared  to  possess  the  life  of  a  bird  ;  and 
such  was  the  jauntiness  of  his  air  and  manner,  that  to  see  him  sit 
to  have  his  half-boots  laced  on,  you  would  fancy  (by  the  help  of 
a  figure)  that,  instead  of  a  little  withered  elderly  gentleman,  it  was 
Venus  attired  by  the  Graces.  His  miniatures  and  who-.?-length 
drawings  were  not  merely  fashionable — they  were  fashion  itself. 
His  imitations  of  Michael  Angelo  were  not  the  thing.  When  more 
than  ninety,  he  retired  from  his  profession,  and  used  to  hold  up 
the  palsied  hand  that  had  painted  lords  and  ladies  for  upwards  of 
sixty  years,  and  smile,  with  unabated  good-humour,  at  the  vanity 
of  human  wishes.  Take  him  with  all  his  faults  and  follies,  we 
scarce  "  shall  look  upon  his  like  again  !" 

Why  should  such  characters  ever  die  ?  It  seems  hard  upon 
them  and  us  ?  Care  fixes  no  sting  in  their  hearts,  and  their 
persons  "  present  no  mark  to  the  foe-man."  Death  in  them 
seizes  upon  living  shadows.  They  scarce  consume  vital  air : 
their  gross  functions  have  been  long  at  an  end — they  live  but  to 
paint,  to  talk  or  think.  Is  it  that  the  vice  of  age,  the  miser's 
fault,  gnaws  them  ?     Many  of  them  are  not  afraid  of  death,  but 


160  TABLE  TALK. 


of  coming  to  want ;  and  having  begun  in  poverty,  are  haunted 
with  the  idea  that  they  shall  end  in  it,  and  so  are  willing  to  die- 
to  save  charges.  Otherwise,  they  might  linger  on  forever,  and 
"  defy  augury !" 


ON  EGOTISM.  161 


ESSAY  XV. 

On  Egotism. 

It  is  mentioned  in  the  Life  of  Salvator  Rosa,  that  on  the  occasion 
of  an  altar-piece  of  his  being  exhibited  at  Rome,  in  the  triumph 
of  the  moment,  he  compared  himself  to  Michael  Angelo,  and 
spoke  against  Raphael,  calling  him  hard,  dry,  &c.  Both  these 
were  fatal  symptoms  for  the  ultimate  success  of  the  work :  the 
picture  was  in  fact  afterwards  severely  censured,  so  as  to  cause 
him  much  uneasiness  ;  and  he  passed  a  great  part  of  his  life  in 
quarrelling  with  the  world  for  admiring  his  landscapes,  which 
were  truly  excellent,  and  for  not  admiring  his  historical  pieces, 
which  were  full  of  defects.  Salvator  wanted  self-knowledge, 
and  that  respect  for  others  which  is  both  a  cause  and  consequence 
of  it.  Like  many  more,  he  mistook  the  violent  and  irritable 
workings  of  self-will  (in  a  wrong  direction)  for  the  impulse  of 
genius,  and  his  insensibility  to  the  vast  superiority  of  others  for  a 
proof  of  his  equality  with  them. 

In  the  first  place,  nothing  augurs  worse  for  any  one's  preten- 
sions to  the  highest  rank  of  excellence  than  his  making  free  with 
those  of  others.  He  who  boldly  and  unreservedly  places  himself 
on  a  level  with  the  mighty  dead,  shows  a  want  of  sentiment — the 
only  thing  that  can  ensure  immortality  to  his  own  works.  When 
we  forestal  the  judgment  of  posterity,  it  is  because  we  are  not 
confident  of  it.  A  mind  that  brings  all  others  into  a  line  with  its 
own  naked  or  assumed  merits,  that  sees  all  objects  in  the  fore- 
ground as  it  were,  that  does  not  regard  the  lofty  monuments 
of  genius  through  the  atmosphere  of  fame,  is  coarse,  crude,  and 
repulsive  as  a  picture  without  aerial  perspective.  Time,  like 
distance,  spreads  a  haze  and  a  glory  round  all  things.  Not  to  per- 
ceive this,  is  to  want  a  sense,  is  to  be  without  imagination.  Yet 
there  are  those  who  strut  in  their  own  self-opinion,  and  deck 


1-32  TABLE  TALK. 


themselves  out  in  the  plumes  of  fancied  self-importance  as  if  they 
were  crowned  with  laurel  by  Apollo's  own  hand.  There  was 
nothing  in  common  between  Salvator  and  Michael  Angelo : 
otherwise,  the  consciousness  of  the  power  with  which  he  had  to 
contend  would  have  over-awed  and  struck  him  dumb  ;  so  that 
the  very  familiarity  of  his  approaches  proved  (as  much  as  any 
thing  else)  the  immense  distance  placed  between  them.  Painters 
alone  seem  to  have  a  trick  of  putting  themselves  on  an  equal 
footing  with  the  greatest  of  their  predecessors,  of  advancing,  on 
the  sole  strength  of  their  vanity  and  presumption,  to  the  highest 
seats  in  the  Temple  of  Fame,  of  talking  of  themselves  and 
Raphael  and  Michael  Angelo  in  the  same  breath  !  What  should 
we  think  of  a  poet  who  should  publish  to  the  world,  or  give  a 
broad  hint  in  private,  that  he  conceived  himself  fully  on  a  par 
with  Homer  or  Milton  or  Shakespear  ?  It  would  be  too  much  for 
a  friend  to  say  so  of  him.  But  artists  suffer  their  friends  to  putl 
them  in  the  true  "  King  Cambyses'  vein"  without  blushing.  Is 
it  that  they  are  often  men  without  a  liberal  education,  who  have 
no  notion  of  any  thing  that  does  not  come  under  their  immediate 
observation,  and  who  accordingly  prefer  the  living  to  the  dead, 
and  themselves  to  all  the  rest  of  the  world  ?  Or  that  there  is 
something  in  the  nature  of  the  profession  itself,  fixing  the  view  on 
a  particular  point  of  time,  and  not  linking  the  present  either  with 
the  past  or  future  ? 

Again,  Salvator's  disregard  for  Raphael,  instead  of  inspiring 
him  with  any  thing  like  "  vain  and  self-conceit,"  ought  to  have 
taught  him  the  greatest  diffidence  in  himself.  Instead  of  antici- 
pating a  triumph  over  Raphael  from  this  circumstance,  he  might 
have  foreseen  it  in  the  sure  source  of  his  mortification  and  defeat. 
The  public  looked  to  find  in  his  pictures  what  he  did  not  see  in 
Raphael  end  were  necessarily  disappointed.  He  could  hardly 
be  expected  to  produce  that  which,  when  produced  and  set  before 
him,  he  did  not  feel  or  understand.  The  genius  for  a  particular 
thing  does  not  imply  taste  in  general  or  for  other  things,  but  it  as- 
suredly pre-supposes  a  taste  or  feeling  for  that  particular  thing.  Sal- 
vator was  so  much  offended  with  the  dryness,  hardness,  &c.  of  Ra- 
phael, only  because  he  was  not  struck,  that  is,  did  not  sympathize 
with  the  divine  mind  within.    If  he  had,  he  would  have  bowed  as  at 


ON  EGOTISM.  163 


a  shrine,  in  spite  of  the  homeliness  or  finicalness  of  the  covering. 
Let  no  man  build  himself  a  spurious  self-esteem  on  his  contempt 
or  indifference  for  acknowledged  excellence.  He  will  in  the  end 
pay  dear  for  a  momentary  delusion :  for  the  world  will  sooner  or 
later  discover  those  deficiencies  in  him,  which  render  him  insen- 
sible to  all  merits  but  his  own. 

Of  all  modes  of  acquiring  distinction,  and,  as  it  were,  "  getting 
the  start  of  the  majestic  world,"  the  most  absurd  as  well  as  dis- 
gusting is  that  of  setting  aside  the  claims  of  others  in  the  lump, 
and  holding  out  our  own  particular  excellence  or  pursuit  as  the 
only  one  worth  attending  to.  We  thus  set  ourselves  up  as  the 
standard  of  perfection,  and  treat  every  thing  else  that  diverges 
from  that  standard  as  beneath  our  notice.  At  this  rate,  a  con- 
tempt for  any  thing  and  a  superiority  to  it  are  synonymous.  It 
is  a  cheap  and  a  short  way  of  showing  that  we  possess  all  excel- 
lence within  ourselves,  to  deny  the  use  or  merit  of  all  those  quali- 
fications that  do  not  belong  to  us.  According  to  such  a  mode  of 
computation,  it  would  appear  that  our  value  is  to  be  estimated 
not  by  the  number  of  acquirements  that  we  do  possess,  but  of  those 
in  which  we  are  deficient  and  to  which  we  are  insensible : — so 
that  we  can  at  any  time  supply  the  place  of  wisdom  and  skill  by 
a  due  proportion  of  ignorance,  affectation,  and  conceit.  If  so, 
the  dullest  fellow,  with  impudence  enough  to  despise  what  he 
does  not  understand,  will  always  be  the  brightest  genius  and  the 
greatest  man.  If  stupidity  is  to  be  a  substitute  for  taste,  know- 
ledge, and  genius,  any  one  may  dogmatize  and  play  the  critic  on 
this  ground.  We  may  easily  make  a  monopoly  of  talent,  if  the 
torpedo-touch  of  our  callous  and  wilful  indifference  is  to  neutralize 
all  other  pretensions.  We  have  only  to  deny  the  advantages  of 
others  to  make  them  our  own  :  illiberality  will  carve  out  the 
way  to  pre-eminence  much  better  than  toil  or  study  or  quickness 
of  parts ;  and  by  narrowing  our  views  and  divesting  ourselves  at 
last  of  common  feeling  and  humanity,  we  may  arrogate  every 
valuable  accomplishment  to  ourselves,  and  ex*lt  ourselves  vastly 
above  our  fellow-mortals  !  That  is,  in  other  words,  we  have  on.y 
to  shut  our  eyes,  in  order  to  blot  the  sun  out  of  heaven,  ana  to 
annihilate  whatever  gives  light  or  heat  to  the  world,  if  it  does  not 
emanate  from  one  single  .source,  by  spreading  the  cloud  of  our 


164  TABLE  TALK. 


own  envy,  spleen,  malice,  want  of  comprehension,  and  prejudice 
over  it.  Yet  how  many  are  there  who  act  upon  this  theory  in 
good  earnest,  grow  more  bigoted  to  it  every  day,  and  not  only 
become  the  dupes  of  it  themselves,  but  by  dint  of  gravity,  by 
bullying  and  brow-beating,  succeed  in  making  converts  of 
others ! 

A  man  is  a  political  economist.  Good :  but  this  is  no  reason 
he  should  think  there  is  nothing  else  in  the  world,  or  that  every 
thing  else  is  good  for  nothing.  Let  us  suppose  that  this  is  the 
most  important  subject,  and  that  being  his  favourite  study,  he  is 
the  best  judge  of  that  point,  still  it  is  not  the  only  one — why  then 
treat  every  other  question  or  pursuit  with  disdain  as  insignificant 
and  mean,  or  endeavour  to  put  others  who  have  devoted  their 
whole  time  to  it  out  of  conceit  with  that,  on  which  they  depended 
for  their  amusement  or  (perhaps)  subsistence  1  I  see  neither  the 
wit,  wisdom,  nor  good-nature  of  this  mode  of  proceeding.  Let 
him  fill  his  library  with  books  on  this  one  subject,  yet  other 
persons  are  not  bound  to  follow  the  example,  and  exclude  every 
other  topic  from  theirs — let  him  write,  let  him  talk,  let  him  think 
on  nothing  else,  but  let  him  not  impose  the  same  pedantic  humour 
as  a  duty  or  a  mark  of  taste  on  others — let  him  ride  the  high  horse, 
and  drag  his  heavy  load  of  mechanical  knowledge  along  the  iron 
railway  of  the  master-science,  but  let  him  not  move  out  of  it  to 
taunt  or  jostle  those  who  are  jogging  quietly  along  upon  their  se- 
veral hobbies,  who  "  owe  him  no  allegiance,"  and  care  not  one 
jot  for  his  opinion.  Yet  we  could  forgive  such  a  person,  if  he 
made  it  his  boast  that  he  had  read  Don  Quixote  twice  through  in 
the   original   Spanish,  and   preferred   Lycidas   to   all   Milton's 

smaller  poems !     What  would  Mr. say  to  any  one  who 

should  profess  a  contempt  for  political  economy  ?  He  would 
nnswer  very  bluntly  and  very  properly,  "  Then  you  know  nothing 
about  it."  It  is  a  pity  that  so  sensible  a  man  and  close  a  reasoner 
should  think  of  putting  down  other  lighter  and  more  elegant  pur- 
suits by  professing  a  contempt  or  indifference  for  them,  which 
springs  from  precisely  the  same  source,  and  is  of  just  the  same 
value.  But  so  it  is  that  there  seems  to  be  a  tacit  presumption 
of  folly  in  whatever  gives  pleasure ;  while  an  air  of  gravity  and 
vrisaom  hovers  round  the  painful  and  precise  ! 


ON  EGOTISM.  165 


A  man  comes  into  a  room,  and  on  his  first  entering,  declares 
without  preface  or  ceremony  his  contempt  for  poetry.  Are  we 
therefore  to  conclude  him  a  greater  genius  than  Homer  ?  No : 
but  by  this  cavalier  opinion  he  assumes  a  certain  natural  ascen- 
dancy over  those  who  admire  poetry.  To  look  down  upon  any 
thing  seemingly  implies  a  greater  elevation  and  enlargement  of 
view  than  to  look  up  to  it.  The  present  Lord  Chancellor  took 
upon  him  to  declare  in  open  court  that  he  would  not  go  across 
the  street  to  hear  Madame  Catalani  sing.  What  did  this  prove  ? 
His  want  of  an  ear  for  music,  not  his  capacity  for  any  thing 
higher.  So  far  as  it  went,  it  only  showed  him  to  be  inferior  to 
those  thousands  of  persons  who  go  with  eager  expectation  to 
hear  her,  and  come  away  with  'astonishment  and  rapture.  A 
man  might  as  well  tell  you  he  is  deaf,  and  expect  you  to  look  at 
him  with  more  respect.  The  want  of  any  external  sense  or 
organ  is  an  acknowledged  defect  and  infirmity :  the  want  of  an 
internal  sense  or  faculty  is  equally  so,  though  our  self-love  con- 
trives to  give  a  different  turn  to  it.  We  mortify  others  by  throw- 
ing cold  water  on  that  in  which  they  have  an  advantage  over  us, 
or  stagger  their  opinion  of  an  excellence  which  is  not  of  self- 
evident  or  absolute  utility,  and  lessen  its  supposed  value,  by 
limiting  the  universality  of  a  taste  for  it.  Lord  Eldon's  protest 
on  this  occasion  was  the  more  extraordinary,  as  he  is  not  only  a 
good-natured  but  a  successful  man.  These  little  spiteful  allu- 
sions are  most  apt  to  proceed  from  disappointed  vanity,  and  an 
apprehension  that  justice  is  not  done  to  ourselves.  By  being  at 
the  top  of  a  profession,  we  have  leisure  to  look  beyond  it.  Those 
who  really  excel  and  are  allowed  to  excel  in  any  thing,  have  no 
excuse  for  trying  to  gain  a  reputation  by  undermining  the  pre- 
tensions of  others ;  they  stand  on  their  own  ground  ;  and  do  not 
need  the  aid  of  invidious  comparisons.  Besides,  the  conscious, 
ness  of  excellence  produces  a  fondness  for,  a  faith  in  it.  1 
should  half  suspect  that  any  one  could  not  be  a  great  lawyer, 
who  denied  that  Madame  Catalani  was  a  great  singer.  The 
Chancellor  must  dislike  her  decisive  tone,  the  rapidity  of  her 
movements !  The  late  Chancellor  (Erskine)  was  a  man  of  (at 
least)  a  different  stamp.  In  the  exuberance  and  buoyancy  of 
his  animal  spirits,  he  scattered  the  graces  and  ornaments  of  lifa 


166  TABLE  TALK. 


over  the  dust  and  cobwebs  of  the  law.  What  is  there  mat  is 
now  left  of  him — what  is  there  to  redeem  his  foibles,  or  to  recall 
the  flush  of  early  enthusiasm  in  his  favour,  or  kindle  one  spark 
of  sympathy  in  the  breast,  but  his  romantic  admiration  of  Mrs. 
Siddons  ?  There  are  those  who,  if  you  praise  Walton's  Complete 
Angler,  sneer  at  it  as  a  childish  or  old-womanish  performance : 
some  laugh  at  the  amusement  of  fishing  as  silly,  others  carp  at 
it  as  cruel ;  and  Dr.  Johnson  said  that  "  a  fishing-rod  was  a  stick 
with  a  hook  at  one  end,  and  a  fool  at  the  other."  I  would  rather 
take  the  word  of  one  who  had  stood  for  days  up  to  his  knees  in 
water,  and  in  the  coldest  weather,  intent  on  this  employ,  who  re- 
turned to  it  again  with  unabated  relish,  and  who  spent  his  whole 
life  in  the  same  manner  without  being  weary  of  it  at  last.  There 
is  something  in  this  more  than  Dr.  Johnson's  definition  accounts 
for.  A  fool  does  not  take  an  interest  in  any  thing ;  or  if  he 
does,  it  is  better  to  be  a  fool  than  a  wise  man,  whose  only  plea, 
sure  is  to  disparage  the  pursuits  and  occupations  of  others,  and 
out  of  ignorance  or  prejudice  to  condemn  them,  merely  because 
they  are  not  his. 

Whatever  interests,  is  interesting.  I  know  of  no  way  of  esti- 
mating the  real  value  of  objects  in  all  their  bearings  and  conse- 
quences, but  I  can  tell  at  once  their  intellectual  value  by  the  de- 
gree of  passion  or  sentiment  the  very  idea  and  mention  of  them 
excites  in  the  mind.  To  judge  of  things  by  reason  or  the  calcu- 
lations of  positive  utility  is  a  slow,  cold,  uncertain,  and  barren 
process — their  power  of  appealing  to  and  affecting  the  imagination 
as  subjects  of  thoughf  and  feeling  is  best  measured  by  the  habitual 
impression  they  leave  upon  the  mind,  and  it  is  with  this  only  we 
have  to  do  in  expressing  our  delight  or  admiration  of  them,  or  in 
setting  a  just  mental  value  upon  them.  They  Ought  to  excite  all 
the  emotion  which  they  do  excite  ;  for  this  is  the  instinctive  and 
unerring  result  of  the  constant  experience  we  have  had  of  their 
power  of  affecting  us,  and  of  the  associations  that  cling  uncon- 
sciously to  them.  Fancy,  feeling  may  be  very  inadequate  tests 
of  truth  ;  but  truth  itself  operates  chiefly  on  the  human  mind 
through  them.  It  is  in  vain  to  tell  me  that  what  excites  the 
heart-felt  sigh  of  youth,  the  tears  of  delight  in  age,  and  fills  up 
the  busy  interval  between  with  pleasing  and  lofty  thoughts,  is 


ON  EGOTISM.  167 


frivolous,  or  a  waste  of  time,  or  of  no  use.  You  only  by  that  give 
me  a  mean  opinion  of  your  ideas  of  utility.  The  labour  of  years, 
the  triumph  of  aspiring  genius  and  consummate  skill,  is  not  to  be 
put  down  by  a  cynical  frown,  by  a  supercilious  srriile,  by  an 
ignorant  sarcasm.  Things  barely  of  use  are  subjects  of  pro- 
fessional skill  and  scientific  inquiry :  they  must  also  be  beautifui 
and  pleasing  to  attract  common  attention,  and  to  be  naturally  and 
universally  interesting.  A  pair  of  shoes  is  good  to  wear :  a  pair  of 
sandals  is  a  more  picturesque  object;  and  a  statue  or  a  poem  are  cer- 
tainly good  to  think  and  talk  about,  which  are  part  of  the  business 
of  life.  To  think  and  speak  of  them  with  contempt  is  therefore  a 
wilful  and  studied  solecism.  Pictures  are  good  things  to  go  and 
see.  This  is  what  people  do ;  they  do  not  expect  to  taste  or  make 
a  dinner  of  them.;  but  we  sometimes  want  to  fill  up  the  time  before 
dinner.  The  progress  of  civilization  and  refinement  is  from  in- 
strumental to  final  causes  ;  from  supplying  the  wants  of  the  body 
to  providing  luxuries  for  the  mind.  To  stop  at  the  mechanical, 
and  refuse  to  proceed  to  the  fine  arts,  or  churlishly  to  reject  all 
ornamental  studies  and  elegant  accomplishments  as  mean  and 
trivial,  because  they  only  afford  employment  to  the  imagination, 
create  food  for  thought,  furnish  the  mind,  sustain  the  soul  in  health 
and  enjoyment,  is  a  rude  and  barbarous  theory — 

"  Et  propter  "vitam  perdere  causas  vivendi." 

Before  we  absolutely  condemn  any  thing,  we  ought  to  be  able 
to  show  something  better,  not  merely  in  itself,  but  in  the  same 
class.  To  know  the  best  in  each  class  infers  a  higher  degree  of 
taste  ;  to  reject  the  class  is  only  a  negation  of  taste  ;  for  different 
classes  do  not  interfere  with  one  another,  nor  can  any  one's  ipse 
dixit  be  taken  on  so  wide  a  question  as  abstract  excellence. 
Nothing  is  truly  and  altogether  despicable  that  excites  angry 
contempt  or  warm  opposition,  since  this  always  implies  that  some 
one  else  is  of  a  different  opinion,  and  takes  an  equal  interest  in  it. 

When  I  speak  of  what  is  interesting,  however,  I  mean  not  only 
to  a  particular  profession,  but  in  general  to  others.  Indeed,  it  is 
the  very  popularity  and  obvious  interest  attached  to  certain  studies 
and  pursuits,  that  excites  the  envy  and  hostile  regard  of  graver 
and  more  recondite  professions.     Man  is  perhaps  not  naturally  an 


168  TABLE  TALK. 


egotist,  or  at  least  he  is  satisfied  with  his  own  particular  line  c  ■ 
excellence  and  the  value  that  he  supposes  inseparable  from  it,  tl'\ 
he  comes  into  the  world  and  finds  it  of  so  little  account  in  the  ey»  a 
of  the  vulgar ;  and  he  then  turns  round  and  vents  his  chagrin  an  J 
disappointment  on  those  more  attractive,  but  (as  he  conceives.) 
superficial  studies,  which  cost  less  labour  and  patience  to  under- 
stand them,  and  are  of  so  much  less  use  to  society.  The  injustice 
done  to  ourselves  makes  us  unjust  to  others.  The  man  of  science 
a  od  the  hard  student  (from  this  cause,  as  well  as  from  a  certain 
nnbending  hardness  of  mind)  come  at  last  to  regard  whatever  is 
generally  pleasing  and  striking  as  worthless  and  light,  and  to  pro- 
portion their  contempt  to  the  admiration  of  others  ;  while  the  artist, 
the  poet,  and  the  votary  of  pleasure  and  popularity  treat  the  more 
solid  and  useful  branches  of  human  knowledge  as  disagreeable 
and  dull.  This  is  often  carried  to  too  great  a  length.  It  is  enough 
that  "  wisdom  is  justified  of  her  children :"  the  philosopher  ought 
to  smile,  instead  of  being  angry  at  the  folly  of  mankind  (if  such 
it  is),  and  those  who  find  both  pleasure  and  profit  in  adorning  and 
polishing  the  airy  "  capitals"  of  science  and  of  art,  ought  not  to 
grudge  those  who  toil  underground  at  the  foundation,  the  praise 
that  is  due  to  their  perseverance  and  self-denial.  There  is  a 
variety  of  tastes  and  capacities,  that  requires  all  the  variety  of 
men's  talents  to  administer  to  it.  The  less  excellent  must  be 
provided  for,  as  well  as  the  more  excellent.  Those  who  are  only 
capable  of  amusement  ought  to  be  amused.  If  all  men  were  forced 
to  be  great  philosophers  and  lasting  benefactors  of  their  species, 
how  few  of  us  could  ever  do  any  thing  at  all  !  But  nature  acts 
more  impartially,  though  not  improvidently.  Wherever  she  be- 
stows a  turn  for  any  thing  on  the  individual,  she  implants  a  cor- 
responding taste  for  it  in  others.  We  have  only  to  "  throw  our 
bread  upon  the  waters,  and  after  many  days  we  shall  find  it  again." 
Let  us  do  our  best,  and  we  need  not  be' ashamed  of  the  smallnesa 
of  our  talent,  or  afraid  of  the  calumnies  and  contempt  of  envious 
maligners.  When  Goldsmith  was  talking  one  day  to  Sir  Joshua 
of  writing  a  fable  in  which  little  fishes  were  to.  be  introduced,  Dr. 
Johnson  rolled  aboui  uneasily  in  his  seat  and  began  to  laugh,  on 
which  Goldsmith  said  rather  angrily — "  Why  do  you  laugh  ?  If 
you  were  to  write  a  fable  for  little  fishes,  you  would  make  them 


ON  EGOTISM.  169 


sjipak  like  great  whales  !"  The  reproof  was  just.  Johnson  was 
in  truth  conscious  of  Goldsmith's  superior  inventiveness,  and  of 
the  lighter  graces  of  his  pen,  but  he  wished  to  reduce  every  thing 
to  his  own  pompous  and  oracular  style.  There  are  not  only  books 
for  children,  but  books  for  all  ages  and  for  both  sexes.  After  we 
grow  up  to  years  of  discretion,  we  do  not  all  become  equally  wise 
at  once.  Our  own  tastes  change  :  the  tastes  of  other  individuals 
are  still  more  different.  It  was  said  the  other  day,  that  "  Thom- 
son's Seasons  would  be  read  while  there  was  a  boarding-school 
girl  in  the  world."  If  a  thousand  volumes  were  written  against 
Hervey's  Meditations,  the  Meditations  would  be  read  when  the 
criticisms  were  forgotten.  To  the  illiterate  and  vain,  affectation 
and  verbiage  will  always  pass  for  fine  writing,  while  the  world 
stands.  No  woman  ever  liked  Burke,  or  disliked  Goldsmith.  It 
is  idle  to  set  up  an  ur.uversal  standard.  There  is  a  large  class 
who,  in  spite  of  themselves,  prefer  Westall  or  Angelica  Kauffman 
to  Raphael  ;  nor  is  it  fit  they  should  do  otherwise.  We  may 
come  to  something  like  a  fixed  and  exclusive  standard  of  taste,  if 
we  confine  ourselves  to  what  will  please  the  best  judges,  meaning 
thereby  persons  of  the  most  refined  and  cultivated  minds,  and  by 
persons  of  the  most  refined  and  cultivated  minds,  generally  mean- 
ing ourselves  !* 

To  return  to  the  original  question.  I  can  conceive  of  nothing 
so  little  or  ridiculous  as  pride.  It  is  a  mixture  of  insensibility 
and  ill-nature,  in  which  it  is  hard  to  say  which  has  the  largest 
share.  If  a  man  knows  or  excels  in,  or  has  ever  studied  any 
two  things,  I  will  venture  to  affirm  he  will  be  proud  of  neither. 
It  is  perhaps  excusable  for  a  person  who  is  ignorant  of  all  but 
one  thing,  to  think  that  the  sole  excellence,  and  to  be  full  of 
himself  as  the  possessor.  The  way  to  cure  him  of  this  folly  is 
to  give  him  something  else  to  be  proud  of.  Vanity  is  a  building 
that  falls  to  the  ground  as  you  widen  its  foundation,  or  strengthen 
the  props  that  should  support  it.  The  greater  a  man  is,  the  less 
he  necessarily  thinks  of  himself;    for  his  knowledge  enlarges 

*  The  books  that  we  like  in  youth  we  return  to  in  age,  if  there  is  nature  and 
simplicity  in  them.  At  what  age  should  Robinson  Crusoe  be  laid  aside  1  I 
do  not  think  that  Don  Cluixote  is  a  book  for  children  ,  or  at  least,  they  under* 
stand  it  better  as  they  grow  up. 

8* 


150  TABLE  TALK. 


with  his  attainments.  In  himself  he  feels  that  he  is  nothing,  a 
point,  a  speck  in  the  universe,  except  as  his  mind  reflects  that 
universe,  and  as  he  enters  into  the  infinite  variety  of  truth, 
oeauty,  and  power  contained  in  it.  Let  any  one  be  brought  up 
among  books,  and  taught  to  think  words  the  only  things,  and  he 
may  conceive  highly  of  himself  from  the  proficiency  he  lias 
made  in  language  and  in  letters.  Let  him  then  be  compelled  to 
attempt  some  other  pursuit — painting,  for  instance — and  be  made 
to  feel  the  difficulties,  the  refinements  of  which  it  is  capable,  and 
(he  number  of  things  of  which  he  was  utterly  ignorant  before, 
and  there  will  be  an  end  of  his  pedantry  and  his  pride  together. 
Nothing  but  the  want  of  comprehension  of  view  or  generosity  of 
spirit  can  make  any  one  fix  on  his  own  particular  acquirement 
as  the  limit  of  all  excellence.  No  one  is  (generally  speaking) 
great  in  more  than  one  thing — if  he  extends  his  pursuits,  he  dis- 
sipates his  strength — yet  in  that  one  thing,  how  small  is  the  in- 
terval between  him  and  the  next  in  merit  and  reputation  to  him- 
self! But  he  thinks  nothing  of,  or  scorns  or  loathes  the  name  of 
his  rival,  so  that  all  that  the  other  possesses  in  common  goes  for 
nothing,  and  the  fraction  of  a  difference  between  them  consti- 
tutes (in  his  opinion)  the  sum  and  substance  of  all  that  is  excel- 
lent in  the  universe !  Let  a  man  be  wise,  and  then  let  us  ask, 
will  his  wisdom  make  him  proud  ?  Let  him  excel  all  others  in 
the  graces  of  the  mind,  has  he  also  those  of  the  body  ?  He  has 
the  advantage  of  fortune,  but  has  he  also  that  of  birth ;  or  if  he 
has  both,  has  he  health,  strength,  beauty  in  a  supreme  degree  ? 
Or  have  not  others  the  same,  or  does  he  think  all  these  nothing 
because  he  does  not  possess  them  ?  The  proud  man  fancies  that 
there  is  no  one  worth  regarding  but  himself:  he  might  as  well 
fancy  there  is  no  other  being  but  himself.  The  one  is  not  a 
greater  stretch  of  madness  than  the  other.  To  make  pride 
justifiable,  there  ought  to  be  but  one  proud  man  in  the  world  ; 
for  if  any  one  individual  has  a  right  to  be  so,  nobody  else  has. 
So  far  from  thinking  ourselves  superior  to  all  the  rest  of  the 
species,  we  cannot  be  sure  that  we  are  above  the  meanest  and 
most  despised  individual  of  it :  for  he  may  have  some  virtue, 
some  excellence,  some  source  of  happiness  or  usefulness  within 
himself,  which  may  redeem  p.ll  other  disadvantages:  or  even  if 


ON  EGOTISM.  Ill 


he  is  without  any  such  hidden  worth,  this  is  r.ot  a  subject  of  ex- 
ultation, but  of  regret,  to  any  one  tinctured  with  the  smallest 
humanity ;  and  he  who  is  totally  devoid  of  the  latter,  cannoi 
have  much  reason  to  be  proud  of  any  thing  else.  Arkwright, 
who  invented  the  spinning-jenny,  for  many  years  kept  a  paltry 
barber's  shop  in  a  provincial  town  :  yet  at  that  time  that  wonder- 
ful machinery  was  working  in  his  brain,  which  has  added  more 
to  the  wealth  and  resources  of  his  country  than  all  the  pride  of 
ancestry  or  insolence  of  upstart  nobility  for  the  last  hundred 
years.  We  should  be  cautious  whom  we  despise.  If  we  do  not 
know  them,  we  can  have  no  right  to  pronounce  a  hasty  sentence  : 
if  we  do,  they  may  espy  some  few  defects  in  us.  No  man  is  a 
hero  to  his  valet-de-chambre.  What  is  it  then  that  makes  the  dif 
ference  1  The  dress,  and  pride.  But  he  is  the  most  of  a  hero 
who  is  least  distinguished  by  the  one,  and  most  free  from  the 
other.  If  we  enter  into  conversation  upon  equal  terms  with  the 
lowest  of  the  people,  unrestrained  by  circumstance,  unawed  by 
interest,  we  shall  find  in  ourselves  but  little  superiority  over 
them.  If  we  know  what  they  do  not,  they  know  what  we  do 
hot.  In  general,  those  who  do  things  for  others,  know  more 
about  them  than  those  for  whom  they  are  done.  A  groom  knows 
more  about  horses  than  his  master.  He  rides  them  too  :  but  the 
one  rides  behind,  the  other  before  !  Hence  the  number  of  forms 
and  ceremonies  that  have  been  invented  to  keep  the  magic  circle 
of  willing  self-importance  inviolate.  The  late  King  sought  but 
one  interview  with  Dr.  Johnson :  his  present  Majesty  is  never 
tired  of  the  company  of  Mr.  Croker ! 

The  collision  of  truth  or  genius  naturally  gives  a  shock  to  the 
pride  of  exalted  rank  :  the  great  and  mighty  usually  seek  out  the 
dregs  of  mankind,  buffoons  and  flatterers,  for  their  pampered  self- 
love  to  repose  on.  Pride  soon  tires  of  every  thing  but  its  sha- 
dow, servility :  but  how  poor  a  triumph  is  that  which  exists  only 
by  excluding  all  rivalry,  however  remote.  He  who  invites  com- 
petition (the  only  test  of  merit,)  who  challenges  fair  comparison, 
and  weighs  different  claims,  is  alone  possessed  of  manly  ambi- 
tion ;  but  will  not  long  continue  vain  or  proud.  Pride  is  "  a  cell 
of  ignorance;  travelling  a-bed."  If  we  look  at  all  out  of  our- 
selves, we  must  see  how  far  short  we  are  of  what  we  would  be 


ITS  TABLE  TALK. 

thought.  The  man  of'  genius  is  poor  ;*  the  rich  man  is  not  a 
lord :  the  lord  wants  to  be  a  king :  the  king  is  uneasy  to  be  a 
tyrant  or  a  God.  Yet  he  alone,  who  could  claim  this  last  cha- 
racter upon  earth,  gave  his  life  a  ransom  for  others  !  The  dwarf 
in  the  romance,  who  saw  the  shadows  of  the  fairest  and  the 
mightiest  among  the  sons  of  men  pass  before  him,  that  he  might 
assume  the  shape  he  liked  best,  had  only  his  choice  of  wealth,  or 
beauty,  or  valour,  or  power.  But  could  he  have  clutched  them 
all,  and  melted  them  into  one  essence  of  pride,  the  triumph 
would  not  have  been  lasting.  Could  vanity  take  all  pomp  and 
power  to  itself,  could  it,  like  the  rainbow,  span  the  earth,  and 
seem  to  prop  the  heavens,  after  all  it  would  be  but  the  wonder 
of  the  ignorant,  the  pageant  of  a  moment.  The  fool  who  dreams 
that  he  is  great  should  first  forget  that  he  is  a  man,  and  before  he 
thinks  of  being  proud,  should  pray  to  be  mad.  The  only  great 
man  in  modern  times,  that  is,  the  only  man  who  rose  in  deeds 
and  fame  to  the  level  of  antiquity,  who  might  turn  his  gaze  upon 
himself  and  wonder  at  his  height,  for  on  him  all  eyes  were  fixed 
as  his  majestic  stature  towered  above  thrones  and  monuments  of 
renown,  died  the  other  day  in  exile,  and  in  lingering  agony  ;  and 
we  still  see  fellows  strutting  about  the  streets,  and  fancying  they 
are  something ! 

Personal  vanity  is  incompatible  with  the  great  and  the  ideal. 
He  who  has  not  seen  or  thought  or  read  of  something  finer  than 
himself,  has  seen  or  read  or  thought  little  ;  and  he  who  has,  will 

*  I  do  not  speak  of  poverty  as  an  absolute  evil ;  though  when  accompanied 
with  luxurious  habits  and  vanity,  it  is  a  great  one.  Even  hardships  and  pri- 
vations have  their  use,  and  give  strength  and  endurance.  Labour  renders  ease 
delightful — hunger  is  the  best  sauce.  The  peasant,  who  at  noon  rests  from 
his  weary  task  under  a  hawthorn  hedge,  and  eats  his  slice  of  coarse  bread  and 
cheese  or  rusty  bacon,  enjoys  more  real  luxury  than  the  prince  with  pampered, 
listless  appetite  under  a  canopy  of  state.  Why  then  does  the  mind  of  man 
pity  the  former,  and  envy  the  latter  1  It  is  because  the  imagination  changes 
places  with  others  in  situation  only,  not  in  feeling;  and  in  fancying  ourselves 
the  peasant,  we  revolt  at  his  homely  fare,  from  not  being  possessed  of  his 
gross  taste  or  keen  appetite,  while  in  thinking  of  the  prince,  we  suppose  our- 
selves to  sit  down  to  his  delicate  viands  and  sumptuous  board,  with  a  relish 
unabated  by  long  habit  and  vicious  excess.  I  am  not  sure  whether  Monde* 
ville  has  not  given  the  same  answer  to  this  hackneyed  question. 


ON  EGOTISM.  173 


not  be  always  looking  in  the  glass  of  his  own  vanity.  Hence 
norte,  artists,  and  men  of  genius  in  general  are  seldom  coxcombs, 
Dut  often  slovens  ;  for  they  find  something  out  of  themselves  better 
worth  studying  than  their  own  persons.  They  have  an  imagi- 
nary standard  in  their  minds,  with  which  ordinary  features  (even 
'heir  own)  will  not  bear  a  comparison,  and  they  turn  their 
thoughts  another  way.  If  a  man  had  a  face  like  one  of  Rapha. 
el's  or  Titian's  heads,  he  might  be  proud  of  it,  but  not  else ;  and 
even  then,  he  would  be  stared  at  as  a  non-descripl  by  "  the  uni- 
versal English  nation."  Few  persons  who  have  seen  the  Anti- 
nous  or  the  Theseus  will  be  much  charmed  with  their  own  beau- 
ty or  symmetry ;  nor  will  those  who  understand  the  costume  of 
the  antique  or  Vandyke's  dresses,  spend  much  time  in  decking 
themselves  out  in  all  the  deformity  of  the  prevailing  fashion.  A 
coxcomb  is  his  own  lay-figure,  for  want  of  any  better  models  to 
employ  his  time  and  imagination  upon. 

There  is  an  inverted  sort  of  pride,  the  reverse  of  that  egotism 
that  has  been  above  described,  aud  which,  because  it  cannot  be 
every  thing,  is  dissatisfied  with  every  thing.  A  person  who  is 
liable  to  this  infirmity  "  thinks  nothing  done,  while  any  thing  re- 
mains to  be  done."  The  sanguine  egotist  prides  himself  on  what 
he  can  do  or  possesses ;  the  morbid  egotist  despises  himself  for 
what  he  wants,  and  is  ever  going  out  of  his  way  to  attempt  hope- 
less and  impossible  tasks.  The  effect  in  either  case  is  not  at  all 
owing  to  reason,  but  to  temperament.  The  one  is  as  easily  de- 
pressed by  what  mortifies  his  latent  ambition,  as  the  other  is 
eJated  by  what  flatters  his  immediate  vanity.  There  are  persons 
whom  no  success,  no  advantages,  no  applause  can  satisfy  ;  for 
they  dwell  only  on  failure  and  defeat.  They  constantly  "  forget 
the  things  that  are  behind,  and  press  forward  to  the  things  that 
are  before."  The  greatest  and  most  decided  acquisitions  would 
uot  indemnify  them  for  the  smallest  deficiency.  They  go  be- 
yond the  old  motto — Aut  Caesar,  aut  nihil — they  not  only  want  to 
oe  at  the  head  of  whatever  they  undertake,  but  if  they  succeed 
in  that,  they  immediately  want  to  be  at  the  head  of  something 
else,  no  matter  how  gross  or  trivial.  The  charm  that  rivets  theii 
affections  is  not  the  importance  or  reputation  annexed  to  the  new 
pursuit,  but  its  novelty  or  difficulty.     That  must  be  a  wonderful 


74  TABLE  TALK. 

accomplishment  indeed,  which  baffles  their  skill — nothing  is  with 
them  of  any  value  but  as  it  gives  scope  to  their  restless  activity 
of  mind,  their  craving  after  an  uneasy  and  importunate  state  of 
excitement.  To  them  the  pursuit  is  every  thing,  the  possession 
nothing.  I  have  known  persons  of  this  stamp,  who,  with  every 
reason  to  be  satisfied  with  their  success  in  life,  and  with  the 
opinion  entertained  of  them  by  others,  despised  themselves  be- 
cause they  could  not  do  something  which  they  were  not  bound 
to  do,  and  which,  if  they  could  have  done  it,  would  not  have 
added  one  jot  to  their  respectability,  either  in  their  own  eyes 
or  those  of  any  one  else,  the  very  insignificance  of  the  attainment 
irritating  their  impatience,  for  it  is  the  humour  of  such  disposi- 
tions to  argue,  "  If  they  cannot  succeed  in  what  is  trifling  and 
contemptible,  how  should  they  succeed  in  any  thing  else  ?"  If 
they  could  make  the  circuit  of  the  arts  and  sciences  and  master 
them  all,  they  would  take  to  some  mechanical  exercise,  and  if 
they  failed,  be  as  discontented  as  ever.  All  that  they  can  do 
vanishes  out  of  sight  the  moment  it  is  within  their  grasp,  and 
"  nothing  is,  but  what  is  not."  A  poet  of  this  description  is  am- 
bitious of  the  thews  and  muscles  of  a  prize-fighter,  and  thinks 
himself  nothing  without  them.  A  prose-writer  would  be  a  fine 
tennis-player,  and  is  thrown  into  despair  because  he  is  not  one, 
without  considering  that  it  requires  a  whole  life  devoted  to  the 
game  to  excel  in  it ;  and  that,  even  if  he  could  dispense  with  this 
apprenticeship,  he  would  still  be  just  as  much  bound  to  excel  in 
rope-dancing,  or  horsemanship,  or  playing  at  cup  and  ball  like 
the  Indian  jugglers,  all  which  is  impossible.  This  feeling  is 
a  strange  mixture  of  modesty  and  pride.  We  think  nothing  of 
what  we  are,  because  we  cannot  be  every  thing  with  a  wish. 
Goldsmith  was  even  jealous  of  beauty  in  the  other  sex,  and  a  si- 
milar character  is  attributed  to  Wharton  by  Pope  : 

"  Though  listening  senates  hung  on  all  he  spoke, 
The  club  must  hail  him  master  *)f  the  joke." 

Playertf  are  for  going  into  the  church — officers  in  the  army  turn 
->layen  For  myself,  do  what  I  might,  I  should  think  myself  a 
poor  creature  unless  I  could  beat  a  boy  often  years  old  at  chuck' 
farthi~j[,  or  an  elderly  gentlewoman  at  piquet ! 


ON  EGOTISM.  116 


The  extreme  of  fastidious  discontent  and  repining  is  as  bad  as 
that  of  over-weening  presumption.  We  ought  to  be  satisfied  if 
we  have  succeeded  in  any  one  thing,  or  with  having  done  our 
best.  Any  thing  more  is  for  health  and  amusement,  and  should 
be  resorted  to  as  a  source  of  pleasure,  not  of  fretful  impatience, 
and  endless,  petty,  self-imposed  mortification.  Perhaps  the  jea- 
lous, uneasy  temperament  is  most  favourable  to  continued  exer- 
tion and  improvement,  if  it  does  not  lead  us  to  fritter  away  at- 
tention on  too  many  pursuits.  By  looking  out  of  ourselves,  we 
gain  knowledge  :  by  being  little  satisfied  with  what  we  have  done, 
we  are  less  apt  to  sink  into  indolence  and  security.  To  conclude 
with  a  piece  of  egotism :  I  never  begin  one  of  these  Essays  with 
a  consciousness  of  having  written  a  line  before  ;  and  endeavour 
to  do  my  best,  because  I  seem  hitherto  to  have  done  nothing  ! 


J*J»  TABLE  TALK. 


ESSAY  XVI. 

On  the  Regal  Character. 

This  is  a  subject  exceedingly  curious,  and  worth  explaining.  lu 
writing  a  criticism,  I  hope  I  shall  not  be  accused  for  intending  a 
libel. 

Kings  are  remarkable  for  long  memories  in  the  merest  trifles. 
They  never  forget  a  face  or  person  they  have  once  seen,  nor  an 
anecdote  they  have  been  told  of  any  one  they  know.  Whatever 
differences  of  character  or  understanding  they  manifest  in  other 
respects,  they  all  possess  what  Dr.  Spurzheim  would  call  the  or- 
gan of  individuality,  or  the  power  of  recollecting  particular  local 
circumstances,  nearly  in  the  same  degree  ;  though  I  shall  attempt 
to  account  for  it  without  recurring  to  his  system.  This  kind  of 
personal  memory  is'  the  natural  effect  of  that  self-importance 
which  makes  them  attach  a  correspondent  significance  to  all  that 
comes  in  contact  with  themselves.  Nothing  can  be  a  matter  of 
indifference  to  a  King,  that  happens  to  a  King.  That  intense 
consciousness  of  their  lofty  identity,  which  never  quits  them,  ex- 
tends to  whatever  falls  under  their  immediate  cognizance.  It  is 
the  glare  of  Majesty  reflected  from  their  own  persons  on  the  per- 
sons  of  those  about  them,  that  fixes  their  attention  ;  and  it  is  the 
same  false  lustre  that  makes  them  blind  and  insensible  to  all  that 
lies  beyond  that  narrow  sphere.  "  My  Lord,"  said  an  English 
King  to  one  of  his  courtiers,  "  I  have  seen  you  in  that  coat  before 
with  different  buttons" — to  the  astonishment  of  the  Noble  Peer. 
There  was  nothing  wonderful  in  it.  It  was  the  habitual  jealousy 
of  the  Sovereign  of  the  respect  due  to  him,  that  made  him  regard 
with  lynx-eyed  watchfulness  even  the  accidental  change  of  dress 
in  one  of  his  favourites.  The  least  diminution  of  glossy  splen 
dour  in  a  birth-day  suit,  considered  as  a  mark  of  slackened  duty 
or  waning  loyalty,  would  expose  it,  tarnished  and  threadbare  tJ 


ON  THE  REGAL  CHARACTER.  177 

the  keen  glance  of  dormant  pride,  waked  to  suspicion.  A  God 
does  not  penetrate  into  the  hearts  of  his  worshippers  with  surer 
insight,  than  a  King,  fond  of  the  attributes  of  awe  and  sovereign- 
ty, detects  the  different  degrees  of  fawning  adulation  in  those 
around  him.  Every  thing  relating  to  external  appearance  and 
deportment  is  scanned  with  the  utmost  nicety,  as  compromising 
the  dignity  of  the  royal  presence.  Involuntary  gestures  become 
overt  acts ;  an  inconsiderate  word  is  magnified  into  a  crime 
against  the  State.  To  suggest  advice,  or  offer  information  un- 
asked, is  to  arraign  the  fallibility  of  the  throne :  to  hint  a  differ, 
ence  of  opinion  to  a  King,  would  create  as  great  a  shock,  as  if 
you  were  to  present  a  pistol  to  the  breast  of  any  other  man. 
"  Never  touch  a  King,"  was  the  answer  of  an  infirm  monarch  to 
one  who  had  saved  him  from  a  dangerous  fall.  When  a  glass 
of  wine  was  presented  to  the  Emperor  Alexander  by  a  servant  in 
livery,  he  started,  as  if  he  had  trod  upon  a  serpent.  Such  is  their 
espect  for  themselves !  Such  is  their  opinion  of  human  nature  ! 
— "  There's  a  divinity  doth  hedge  a  King,"  that  keeps  their  bo- 
dies and  their  minds  sacred  within  the  magic  circle  of  a  name  ; 
and  it  is  their  fear  lest  this  circle  should  be  violated  or  approached 
without  sufficient  awe,  that  makes  them  observe  and  remember 
the  countenances  of  others  with  such  infinite  circumspection  and 
exactness. 

As  Kings  have  the  sagacity  of  pride,  courtiers  have  the  cun- 
ning of  fear.  They  watch  their  own  behaviour  and  that  of  others 
with  breathless  apprehension,  and  move  amidst  the  artificial  forms 
of  court-etiquette,  as  if  the  least  error  must  be  fatal  to  them. 
Their  sense  of  personal  propriety  is  heightened  by  servility  : 
every  faculty  is  wound  up  to  flatter  the  vanity  and  prejudices  of 
their  superiors.  When  Coates  painted  a  portrait  in  crayons  of 
Queen  Charlotte  on  her  first  arrival  in  this  country,  the  King 
followed  by  a  train  of  attendants,  went  to  ldbk  at  it.  The  trem- 
bling artist  stood  by.  "  Well,  what  do  you  think  ?"  said  the 
King  to  those  in  waiting.  Not  a  word  in  reply.  "  Do  you  think 
it  like  ?"  Still  all  was  hushed  as  death.  "  Why,  yes,"  (he 
added,)  "  I  think  it  is  like,  very  like."  A  buzz  of  admiration 
instantly  filled  the  room  ;  and  the  old  Duchess  of  Northumber. 
land,  going  up  to  the  artist,  and  tapping  him  familiarly  on  the 
12 


78  TABLE  TALK. 

shoulder,  said,  "  Remember,  Mr.  Coates,  I  am  to  have  the  first 
copy !"  On  another  occasion,  when  the  Queen  had  sat  foi  'ier 
portrait,  one  of  the  maids  of  honour  coming  into  the  room  c»  vte- 
sied  to  the  reflection  in  the  glass,  affecting  to  mistake  it  foi  the 
^ueen.  The  picture  was,  you  may  be  sure,  a.flattering  likeness. 
In  the  Memoirs  of  Count  Grammont,  it  is  related  of  Louis  XIV. 
that  having  a  dispute  at  chess  with  one  of  his  courtiers,  no  one 
present  would  give  an  opinion.  "  Oh,"  said  he,  "here  comes 
Jount  Hamilton,  he  shall  decide  which  of  us  is  in  the  right." — 
"  Your  Majesty  is  in  the  wrong,"  replied  the  Count,  without 
.ooking  at  the  board.  On  which  the  King  remonstrating  with 
him  on  the  impossibility  of  his  judging  till  he  saw  the  state  of  the 
game,  he  answered,  "  Does  your  Majesty  suppose  that  if  you 
were  in  the  right,  all  these  Noblemen  would  stand  by  and  say 
nothing  ?"  A  King  was  once  curious  to  know,  which  was  the 
tallest,  himself  or  a  certain  courtier.  "  Let  us  measure,"  said 
the  King.  The  King  stood  up  to  be  measured  first ;  but  when 
the  person  who  was  fixed  upon  to  take  their  height  came  to 
measure  the  Nobleman,  he  found  it  quite  impossible,  as  he  first 
rose  on  tip-toe,  then  crouched  down,  now  shrugged  up  his  shoul- 
ders to  the  right,  then  twisted  his  body  to  the  left.  Afterwards 
his  friend  asking  him  the  reason  of  these  unaccountable  gesticu- 
lations, he  replied,  "  I  could  not  tell  whether  the  King  wished  me 
to  be  taller  or  shorter  than  himself;  and  all  the  time  I  was  making 
those  odd  movements,  I  was  watching  his  countenance  to  see  what 
I  ought  to  do."  If  such  is  the  exquisite  pliability  of  the  inmates 
of  a  court  in  trifles  like  these,  what  must  be  their  independence 
of  spirit  and  disinterested  integrity  in  questions  of  peace  and  war, 
that  involve  the  rights  of  Sovereigns  or  the  liberties  of  the  people ! 
It  has  been  suggested  (and  not  without  reason)  that  the  difficulty 
of  trusting  to  the  professions  of  those  who  surround  them,  is  one 
circumstance  that  renders  Kings  such  expert  physiognomists,  the 
language  of  the  countenance  being  the  only  one  they  have  left  to 
decypher  the  thoughts  of  others-;  and  the  very  disguises  which 
are  practised  to  prevent  the  emotions  of  the  mind  from  appearing 
n  the  face,  only  rendering  them  more  acute  and  discriminating 
jbservers.  It  is  the  same  insincerity  and  fear  of  giving  offeree 
oy  candour  and  plain-speaking  in  their  immediate  dependent, 


ON  THE  REGAL  CHARACTER.  179 

that  makes  Kings  gossips  and  inquisitive.  They  have  no  way  of 
ascertaining  the  opinions  of  others,  but  by  getting  them  up  into  a 
corner,  and  extorting  the  commonest  information  from  them,  piece- 
meal, by  endless,  teasing,  tiresome  questions  and  cross-examina- 
tion. The  walls  of  a  palace,  like  those  of  a  convent,  are  the 
favoured  abode  of  scandal  and  tittle-tattle.  The  inhabitants  of 
both  are  equally  shut  out  from  the  common  privileges  and  com 
<non  incidents  of  humanity,  and  whatever  relates  to  the  every -da) 
world  about  us,  has  to  them  the  air  of  romance.  The  desire 
which  the  most  meritorious  Princes  have  shown  to  acquire  infor 
mation  on  matters  of  fact  rather  than  of  opinion,  is  partly  because 
their  prejudices  will  not  suffer  them  to  exercise  their  understand 
ings  freely  on  the  most  important  speculative  questions,  partly 
from  their  jealousy  of  being  dictated  to  on  any  point  that  admits 
of  a  question  ; — as,  on  the  other  hand,  the  desire  which  the  Sove- 
reigns of  northern  and  uncultivated  kingdoms  have  shown  to 
become  acquainted  with  the  arts  and  elegances  of  life  in  southern 
nations,  is  evidently  owing  to  their  natural  jealousy  of  the  advan- 
tages of  civilization  over  barbarism.  From  the  principle  here 
stated,  Peter  the  Great  visited  this  country,  and  worked  in  our 
dock-yards  as  a  common  ship-wright.  To  the  same  source  may 
be  traced  the  curiosity  of  the  Duchess  of  Oldenburgh  to  see  a 
beef-steak  cooked,  to  take  a  peep  into  Mr.  Meaux's  great  brewing- 
vat,  and  to  hear  Mr.  Whitbread  speak  ! 

The  common  regal  character  is  then  the  reverse  of  what  it 
ought  to  be.  It  is  the  purely  personal,  occupied  with  its  own 
petty  feelings,  prejudices,  and  pursuits  ;  whereas  it  ought  to  be  the 
purely  philosophical,  exempt  from  all  personal  considerations,  and 
contemplating  itself  only  in  its  general  and  paramount  relation  to 
the  State.  This  is  the  reason  why  there  have  been  so  few  great 
Kings.  They  want  the  power  of  abstraction  :  and  their  situa- 
tions are  necessarily  at  variance  with  their  duties  in  this  respect ; 
for  every  thing  forces  them  to  concentrate  their  attention  upon 
themselves,  and  to  consider  their  rank  and  privileges  in  connec- 
tion with  their  private  advantage,  rather  than  with  public  good. 
This  is  but  natural.  It  is  easier  to  employ  the  power  they 
possess  in  pampering  their  own  appetites  and  passions,  than  tc 
wield  it  for  the  benefit  of  a  great   empire.      They  see   well 


80  TABLE  TALK. 


enough  how  the  community  is  made  for  them,  not  so  well  how 
hey  are  made  for  the  community.  Not  knowing  how  to  act  as  stew . 
ards  for  their  trust,  they  set  up  for  heirs  to  the  estate,  and  waste 
t  at  their  pleasure  : — without  aspiring  to  reign  as  Kings,  they  are 
contented  to  live  as  spunges  upon  royalty.  A  great  King  oughl 
:o  be  the  greatest  philosopher  and  the  truest  patriot  in  his  domin- 
ons :  hereditary  Kings  can  be  but  common  mortals.  It  is  noi 
.hat  they  are  not  equal  to  other  men,  but  to  be  equal  to  their  rank 
as  Kings,  they  ought  to  be  more  than  men.  Their  power  is  equal 
.0  that  of  the  whole  community :  their  wisdom  and  virtue  ought 
.0  keep  pace  with  their  power.  But  in  ordinary  cases,  the  height 
to  which  they  are  raised,  instead  of  enlarging  their  views  or  en- 
nobling  their  sentiments,  makes  them  giddy  with  vanity,  and  ready 
*»  look  down  on  the  world  which  is  subjected  to  their  power,  as 
.he  plaything  of  their  will.  They  regard  men  crawling  on  the 
face  of  the  earth,  as  we  do  the  insects  that  cross  our  path,  and 
survey  the  common  drama  of  human  life  as  a  fantoccini  exhibi- 
tion got  up  for  their  amusement.  There  is  no  sympathy  between 
Kings  and  their  subjects ;  except  in  a  constitutional  monarchy 
like  ours,  through  the  medium  of  Lords  and  Commons.  Take 
away  that  check  upon  their  ambition  and  rapacity,  and  their  pre- 
tensions  become  as  monstrous  as  they  are  ridiculous.  Without 
the  common  feelings  of  humanity  in  their  own  breasts,  they  have 
no  regard  for  them  in  their  aggregate  amount  and  accumulating 
force.  Reigning  in  contempt  of  the  people,  they  would  crush 
and  trample  upon  all  power  but  their  own.  They  consider  the 
claims  of  justice  and  compassion  as  so  many  impertinent  interfer- 
ences with  the  royal  prerogative.  They  despise  the  millions  of 
slaves  whom  they  see  linked  to  the  foot  of  the  throne  ;  and  they 
soon  hate  what  they  despise.  They  will  sacrifice  a  kingdom  for 
a  caprice,  and  mankind  for  a  bauble.  Weighed  in  the  scales  of 
their  pride,  the  meanest  things  become  of  the  greatest  importance: 
weighed  in  the  balance  of  reason,  the  universe  is  nothing  to  them. 
It  is  this  overweening,  aggravated,  intolerable  sense  of  swelling 
pride  and  ungovernable  self-will,  that  sometimes  disorders  their 
imaginations  ;  as  it  is  their  blind  fatuity  and  insensibility  to  all 
beyond  themselves,  that,  transmitted  through  successive  genera- 
tions and  confirmed  by  regal  intermarriages,  in  time  makes  them 


ON  THE  REGAL  CHARACTER.  181 

idiots.  When  we  see  a  poor  creature  like  Ferdinand  VII.,  who 
can  hardly  gabble  out  his  words  like  a  human  being,  more  imbe- 
cile than  a  woman,  more  hypocritical  than  a  priest,  decked  and 
dandled  in  the  long  robes  and  swaddling  clothes  of  Legitimacy, 
lullabied  to  rest  with  the  dreams  of  superstition,  drunk  with  the 
patriot-blood  of  his  country,  and  launching  the  thunders  of  his 
coward-arm  against  the  rising  liberties  of  a  new  world,  while  he 
claims  the  style  and  title  of  Image  of  the  Divinity,  we  may  laugh 
or  weep,  but  there  is  nothing  to  wonder  at.  Tyrants  forego  all 
respect  for  humanity  in  proportion  as  they  are  sunk  beneath  it : — 
taught  to  believe  themselves  of  a  different  species,  they  really 
become  so  ;  lose  their  participation  with  the  kind ;  and  in  mim- 
icking the  God,  dwindle  into  the  brute  !  Blind  with  prejudices  as 
a  mole,  stung  with  truth  as  with  scorpions,  sore  all  over  with 
wounded  pride  like  a  boil,  their  minds  a  morbid  heap  of  proud 
flesh  and  bloated  humours,  a  disease  and  gangrene  in  the  State, 
instead  of  its  life-blood  and  vital  principle ;— foreign  despots 
claim  mankind  as  their  property,  "  independently  of  their  conduct 
or  merits,"  and  there  is  one  Englishman  found  base  enough  to 
echo  the  foul  calumny  against  his  country  and  his  kind. 

We  might,  in  the  same  manner,  account  for  the  disparity  be- 
tween the  public  and  private  character  of  Kings.  It  is  the  mis- 
fortune of  most  Kings  (not  their  fault)  to  be  born  to  thrones,  a 
situation  which  ordinary  talents  or  virtue  cannot  fill  with  im- 
punity. We  often  find  a  very  respectable  man  make  but  a  very 
sorry  figure  as  a  Sovereign.  Nay,  a  Prince  may  be  possessed 
of  extraordinary  virtues  and  accomplishments,  and  not  be  more 
thought  of  for  them.  He  may,  for  instance,  be  a  man  of  good 
nature  and  good  manners,  graceful  in  his  person,  the  idol  of  the 
other  sex,  the  model  of  his  own ;  every  word  or  look  may  be 
marked  with  the  utmost  sense  of  propriety  and  delicate  attention 
to  the  feelings  of  others ;  he  may  be  a  good  classic,  well-versed 
in  history — may  speak  Italian,  French,  Spanish,  and  German 
fluently  ;  he  may  be  an  excellent  mimic  ;  he  may  say  good 
things,  and  do  friendly  ones ;  he  may  be  able  to  join  in  a  catch, 
or  utter  a  repartee,  or  dictate  a  billet-doux ;  he  may  be  master 
of  Hoyle,  and  deep  in  the  rules  of  the  Jockey  Club ;  he  may 
havi  an  equal  taste  in  ragputs  and  poetry,  in  dancing  and  hi 


TABLE  TALK. 


iress ;  he  may  adjust  a  toupee  with  the  dexterity  of  a  friseur 
or  tie  a  cravat  with  the  hand  and  eye  of  a  man-milliner :  he 
nay  have  all  these  graces  and  accomplishments,  and  as  many 
-nore,  and  yet  he  may  be  nothing ;  as  without  any  one  of  them 
ae  may  be  a  great  Prince.  They  are  not  the  graces  and  ac- 
complishments of  a  Sovereign,  but  of  a  Lord  of  the  Bedchamber. 
They  do  not  show  a  great  mind,  bent  on  great  objects,  and 
swayed  by  lofty  views.  They  are  rather  foibles  and  blemishes 
m  the  character  of  a  ruler  ;  for  they  imply  that  his  attention  has 
been  turned  as  much  upon  adorning  his  own  person  as  upon  ad- 
vancing the  State.  Charles  II.  was  a  King,  such  as  we  have 
here  described ;  amiable,  witty,  and  accomplished,  and  yet  his 
memory  is  equally  despised  and  detested.  Charles  was  without 
strength  of  mind  or  public  principle.  He  could  not  arrive  at 
the  comprehension  of  that  mixed  mass  of  thought  and  feeling,  a 
kingdom — he  thought  merely  of  the  throne.  He  was  as  unlike 
Cromwell  in  the  manner  in  which  he  came  by  the  Sovereignty 
of  the  realm  as  in  the  use  he  made  of  it.  He  saw  himself,  not 
in  the  glass  of  history,  but  in  the  glass  on  his  toilette, — not  in 
the  eyes  of  posterity,  but  of  his  courtiers  and  mistresses.  In- 
stead of  regulating  his  conduct  by  public  opinion  and  abstract 
reason,  he  did  every  thing  from  a*  feeling  of  personal  conveni- 
ence. Charles  would  have  been  more  annoyed  with  the  rejec- 
tion of  a  licentious  overture  than  with  the  rebellion  of  a  province  ; 
and  poured  out  the  blood  of  his  subjects  with  the  same  gaiety 
and  indifFerence  as  he  did  a  glass  of  wine.  He  had  no  idea  of 
his  obligations  to  the  State,  and  only  laid  aside  the  private  gen- 
tleman to  become  the  tyrant  of  his  people.  Charles  was  popu- 
lar in  his  life-time,  Cibber  tells  us,  because  he  used  to  walk  out 
with  his  spaniels  and  feed  his  ducks  in  St.  James's  Park.  His- 
tory has  consigned  his  name  to  infamy  for  the  executions  under 
Jeffries,  and  for  his  league  with  a  legitimate  despot,  to  under- 
mine the  liberties  of  his  country. 

What  is  it,  then,  that  makes  a  great  Prince  ?  Not  the  under- 
standing Purcell  or  Mozart,  but  the  having  an  ear  open  to  the 
voice  of  truth  and  justice !  Not  a  taste  in  made-dishes,  or 
French  wines,  or  court-dresses,  but  a  fellow-feeling  with  the  ca- 
lamities of  hunger,  of  cold,  of  disease,  and  nakedness !     Not  a 


ON  THE  REGAL  CHARACTER.  183 

knowledge  of  the  elegances  of  fashionable  life,  but  a  heart  that 
feel  s  for  the  millions  of  its  fellow-beings  in  want  of  the  common 
necessaries  of  life  !  Not  a  set  of  brilliant  frivolous  accomplish- 
ments, but  a  manly  strength  of  character,  proof  against  the  se- 
ductions of  a  throne  !  He,  in  short,  is  a  patriot  King,  who,  with- 
out any  other  faculty  usually  possessed  by  Sovereigns,  has  one 
which  they  seldom  possess, — the  power  in  imagination  of  changing 
places  with  his  people.  Such  a  King  may  indeed  aspire  to  the 
character  of  a  ruling  providence  over  a  nation ;  any  other  is  but 
he  head-cypher  of  a  court ! 


END   OF   PAST  I 


CONTENTS, 


TABLE  TALK.    FIEST  SERIES.    PART  IL 


PAOl 

Essay  XVII. — On  the  Look  op  a  Gentleman,         ....  1 

XVIII. — On  Reading  Old  Books, 15 

XIX. — On  Personal  Character, 27 

XX. — On  Vulgarity  and  Affectation,      .        .        .        .42 

XXI. — On  Antiquity,    ....                 ...  5*7 

XXII. — On  the  Conduct  of  Life  :  or,  Advice  to  a  School- 
boy,            69 

XXIII. — The  Indian  Jugglers, 86 

XXIV. — On  the  Prose-style  of  Poets,  .....  101 

XXV. — On  the  Conyersation  of  Authors,  .        .        .        .116 

XXVI. — The  same  subject  continued,  ....  130 

XXVII. — My  First  acquaintance  with  Poets,       .        .        .  141 

XXVIII. — Of  Persons  one  would  wish  to  have  seen,   .        .  161 

XXIX. — Shyness  of  Scrc~.*s,        ....  .176 

XXX. — On  Old  English  Writers  and  Speakers,  188 

9 


TABLE    TALK. 


ESSAY  XVII. 

Or.  the.  Look  of  a  Gentleman. 

u  The  ii  >blemen-look  ?  Yes,  I  know  what  you  mean  very  well :  that  look 
which  a  nobleman  should  have,  rather  than  what  they  have  generally  now. 
The  Duke  of  Buckingham  (Sheffield*)  was  a  genteel  man,  and  had  a  great 
deal  the  look  you  speak  of.  Wycherley  was  a  very  genteel  man,  and  had 
the  nobleman  look  as  much  as  the  Duke  of  Buckingham." — Pope. 

"  He  instanced  it  too  in  Lord  Peterborough,  Lord  Bolingbroke,  Lord  Hin- 
chinbroke,  the  Duke  of  Bolton,  and  two  or  three  more." — Spence's  Anecdotes 
of  Pope. 

I  have  chosen  the  above  motto  to  a  very  delicate  subject,  which 
in  prudence  I  might  let  alone.  I,  however,  like  the  title  j  and 
will  try,  at  least,  to  make  a  sketch  of  it. 

What  it  is  that  constitutes  the  look  of  a  gentleman  is  more  easily 
felt  than  described.  We  all  know  it  when  we  see  it ;  but  we  do 
not  know  how  to  account  for  it,  or  to  explain  in  what  it  consists. 
Causa  latet,  res  ipsa  notissima.  Ease,  grace,  dignity,  have  been 
given  as  the  exponents  and  expressive  symbols  of  this  look ;  but 
I  would  rather  say,  that  an  habitual  self-possession  determines 
the  appearance  of  a  gentleman.  He  should  have  the  complete 
command  not  only  over  his  countenance,  but  over  his  limbs  and 
motions.  In  other  words,  he  should  discover  in  his  air  and  man- 
ner a  voluntary  power  over  his  whole  body,  which,  with  every  in- 
flexion of  it,  should  be  under  the  control  of  his  will.     It  must  be 

*  Quere,  Villiers,  because  in  another  place  it  is  said,  that  "  when  the  latter 
entered  the  presence-chamber,  he  attracted  all  eyes  by  the  handsomeness  of 
his  person,  and  the  gracefulness  of  his  demeanor." 
1 


TABLE  TALK. 


evident  that  he  looks  and  does  as  he  likes,  without  any  restraint, 
confusion,  or  awkwardness.  He  is,  in  fact,  master  of  his  person, 
as  the  professor  of  an  art  or  science  is  of  a  particular  instru- 
ment;  he  directs  it  to  what  use  he  pleases  and  intends.  Wher- 
ever this  power  and  facility  appear,  we  recognize  the  look  and 
deportment  of  the  gentleman,  that  is,  of  a  person  who  by  his 
habits  and  situation  in  life,  and  in  his  ordinary  intercourse  with 
society,  has  had  little  else  to  do  than  to  study  those  movements, 
and  that  carriage  of  the  body,  which  were  accompanied  with 
most  satisfaction  to  himself,  and  were  calculated  to  excite  the  ap- 
probation of  the  beholder.  Ease,  it  might  be  observed,  is  no 
enough ;  dignity  is  too  much.  There  must  be  a  certain  retenu 
a  conscious  decorum  added  to  the  first, — and  a  certain  "  famili- 
arity of  regard,  quenching  the  austere  countenance  of  control," 
in  the  second,  to  answer  to  our  conception  of  this  character.  Per- 
haps propriety  is  as  near  a  word  as  any  to  denote  the  manners 
of  the  gentleman  ;  elegance  is  necessary  to  the  fine  gentleman ; 
dignity  is  proper  to  noblemen ;  and  majesty  to  kings  ! 

Wherever  this  constant  and  decent  subjection  of  the  body  to  the 
mind  is  visible  in  the  customary  actions  of  walking,  sitting,  riding, 
standing,  speaking,  &c,  we  draw  the  same  conclusion  as  to  the 
individual — whatever  may  be  the  impediments  or  unavoidable 
defects  in  the  machine,  of  which  he  has  the  management.  A 
man  may  have  a  mean  or  disagreeable  exterior,  may  halt  in  his 
gait,  or  have  lost  the  use  of  half  his  limbs  ;  and  yet  he  may  show 
this  habitual  attention  to  what  is  graceful  and  becoming  in  the 
use  he  makes  of  all  the  power  he  has  left — in  the  "  nice  conduct" 
of  the  most  unpromising  and  impracticable  figure.  A  hump- 
backed or  deformed  man  does  not  necessarily  look  like  a  clown 
or  a  mechanic  ;  on  the  contrary,  from  his  care  in  the  adjustment 
of  his  appearance,  and  his  desire  to  remedy  his  defects,  he  for  the 
most  part  acquires  something  of  the  look  of  a  gentleman.  The 
common  nick-name  of  My  Lord,  applied  to  such  persons,  has 
allusion  to  this — to  their  circumspect  deportment,  and  tacit  re- 
sistance to  vulgar  prejudice.  Lord  Ogleby,  in  the  Clandestine 
Marriage,  is  as  crazy  a  piece  of  elegance  and  refinement,  even 
after  he  is  "  wound  up  for  the  day,"  as  can  well  be  imagined  ; 
yet  in  the  hands  of  a  genuine  actor,  his  tottering  step,  his  twitches 


ON  THE  LOOK  OF  A   GENTLEMAN. 


«f  the  gout,  his  unsuccessful  attempts  at  youth  and  gaiety,  take 
nothing  from  the  nobleman.  He  has  the  idea1  model  in  his  mind, 
resents  his  deviations  from  it  with  proper  horror,  recovers  himself 
from  any  ungraceful  action  as  soon  as  possible  :  does  all  he  can 
with  his  limited  means,  and  fails  in  his  just  pretensions,  not  from 
inadvertence,  but  necessity.  Sir  Joseph  Banks,  who  was  almost 
bent  double,  retained  to  the  last  the  look  of  a  privy-counsellor. 
There  was  all  the  firmness  and  dignity  that  could  be  given  by 
the  sense  of  his  own  importance  to  so  distorted  and  disabled  a 
trunk.  Sir  Charles  Bunbury,  as  he  saunters  down  St.  James's 
street,  with  a  large  slouched  hat,  a  lack-lustre  eye  and  aquiline 
nose,  an  old  shabby  drab-coloured  coat,  buttoned  across  his  breast 
without  a  cape — with  old  top-boots,  and  his  hands  in  his  waistcoat 
or  breeches'  pockets,  as  if  he  were  strolling  along  his  own  garden- 
walks,  or  over  the  turf  at  Newmarket,  after  having  made  his  bets 
secure — presents  nothing  very  dazzling,  or  graceful,  or  dignified 
to  the  imagination  ;  though  you  can  tell  infallibly  at  the  first 
glance,  or  even  a  bowshot  off,  that  he  is  a  gentleman  of  the  first 
water  (the  same  that  sixty  years  ago  married  the  beautiful  Lady 
Sarah  L-nn-x,  with  whom  the  king  was  in  love).  What  is  the 
clue  to  this  mystery  ?  It  is  evident  that  his  person  costs  him  no 
more  trouble  than  an  old  glove.  His  limbs  are,  from  long  prac 
tice,  left  to  take  care  of  themselves  ;  they  move  of  their  own 
accord  ;  he  does  not  strut  or  stand  on  tip-toe  to  show 

"  how  tall 

His  person  is  above  them  all :" 

but  he  seems  to  find  his  own  level,  and  wherever  he  is,  to  slide 
into  his  place  naturally ;  he  is  equally  at  home  among  lords  or 
gamblers  ;  nothing  can  discompose  his  fixed  serenity  of  look  and 
purpose  ;  there  is  no  mark  of  superciliousness  about  him,  nor 
does  it  appear  as  if  any  thing  could  meet  his  eye  to  startle  or 
throw  him  off"  his  guard  ;  he  neither  avoids  nor  courts  notice  ;  but 
the  archaism  of  his  dress  may  be  understood  to  denote  a  lingering 
partiality  for  the  costume  of  the  last  age,  and  something  like  a 
prescriptive  contempt  for  the  finery  of  this.  The  old  one-eyed 
Duke  of  Queensberry  is  another  example  that  I  might  quote.  As 
he  sat  in  his  bow-window  in  Piccadilly,  erect  and  emaciated,  ha 


TABLE  TALK. 


seemed  like  a  nobleman  framed  and  glazed,  or  a  well-dressed 
mummy  of  the  Court  of  George  II. 

We  have  few  of  these  precious  specimens  of  the  gentleman  or 
nobleman-look  now  remaining ;  other  considerations  have  set 
aside  the  exclusive  importance  of  the  character,  and  of  course 
the  jealous  attention  to  the  outward  expression  of  it.  Where  we 
oftenest  meet  with  it  now-a-days,  is,  perhaps,  in  the  butlers  in  old 
families,  or  the  valets  and  "  gentlemen's  gentlemen"  of  the 
younger  branches.  The  sleek  pursy  gravity  of  the  one  answers 
to  the  stately  air  of  some  of  their  quondam  masters ;  and  the 
flippancy  and  finery  of  our  old-fashioned  beaux,  having  been 
discarded  by  the  heirs  to  the  title  and  estate,  have  been  re-  - 
tained  by  their  lackeys.  The  late  Admiral  Byron  (I  have  heard 
Northcote  say)  had  a  butler,  or  steward,  who,  from  constantly 
observing  his  master,  had  so  learned  to  mimic  him — the  look,  the 
manner,  the  voice,  the  bow,  were  so  alike — he  was  so  "  subdued 
to  the  very  quality  of  his  lord" — that  it  was  difficult  to  distin- 
guish them  apart.  Our  modern  footmen,  as  we  see  them  flutter- 
ing and  lounging  in  lobbies  or  at  the  doors  of  ladies'  carriages, 
bedizened  in  lace  and  powder,  with  ivory-headed  cane  and  em- 
broidered gloves,  give  one  the  only  idea  of  the  fine  gentleman 
of  former  periods,  as  they  are  still  occasionally  represented  on 
the  stage ;  and  indeed  our  theatrical  heroes,  who  top  such  parts, 
might  be  supposed  to  have  copied,  as  a  last  resource,  from  the 
heroes  of  the  shoulder-knot.  We  also  sometimes  meet  with  a 
straggling  personation  of  this  character,  got  up  in  common  life 
from  pure  romantic  enthusiasm,  and  on  absolutely  ideal  princi- 
ples. I  recollect  a  well-grown  comely  haberdasher,  who  made 
a  practice  of  walking  every  day  from  Bishopsgate-street  to  Pall- 
mall  and  Bond-street  with  the  undaunted  air  and  strut  of  a  gen- 
eral-officer ;  and  also  a  prim  undertaker,  who  regularly  tendered 
his  person,  whenever  the  weather  would  permit,  from  the  neigh 
bourhood  of  Camberwell  into  the  favourite  promenades  of  the 
city,  with  a  mincing  gait  that  would  have  become  a  gentleman- 
usher  of  the  black-rod.  What  a  strange  infatuation  to  live  in  a 
dream  of  being  taken  for  what  one  is  not — in  deceiving  others, 
and  at  the  same  time  ourselves ;  for  no  doubt  these  persons  be- 
lieved that  they  thus  appeared  to  the  world  in  their  true  charac 


ON  THE  LOOK  OF  A  GENTLEMAN. 


ters,  and  that  their  assumed  pretensions  did  no  more  than  justice 
to  their  real  merits. 

"  Dress  makes  the  man,  and  want  of  it  the  fellow; 
The  rest  is  all  but  leather  and  prunella !" 

I  confess,  however,  that  I  admire  this  look  of  a  gentleman, 
more  when  it  rises  from  the  level  of  common  life,  and  bears  the 
stamp  of  intellect,  than  when  it  is  formed  out  of  the  mould  of 
adventitious  circumstances.  I  think  more  highly  of  Wycherley 
than  I  do  of  Lord  Hinchinbroke,  for  looking  like  a  lord.  In  the 
one,  it  was  the  effect  of  native  genius,  grace,  and  spirit ;  in  the 
other,  comparatively  speaking,  of  pride  or  custom.  A  visitor 
complimenting  Voltaire  on  the  growth  and  flourishing  condition 
of  some  trees  in  his  grounds, — "  Aye,"  said  the  French  wit, 
"  they  have  nothing  else  to  do !"  A  lord  has  nothing  to  do  but 
to  look  like  a  lord :  our  comic  poet  had  something  else  to  do,  and 
did  it  !* 

Though  the  disadvantages  of  nature  or  accident  do  not  act  as 
obstacles  to  the  look  of  a  gentleman,  those  of  education  and  em 
ployment  do.  A  shoe-maker,  who  is  bent  in  two  over  his  daily 
task ;  a  tailor  who  sits  cross-legged  all  day ;  a  ploughman,  who 
wears  clog-shoes  over  the  furrowed  miry  soil,  and  can  hardly 
drag  his  feet  after  him ;  a  scholar  who  has  pored  all  his  life  over 
books — are  not  likely  to  possess  that  natural  freedom  and  ease, 
or  to  pay  that  strict  attention  to  personal  appearances,  that  the 
look  of  a  gentleman  implies.  I  might  add,  that  a  man-milliner 
behind  a  counter,  who  is  compelled  to  show  every  mark  of  com- 
plaisance to  his  customers,  but  hardly  expects  common  civility 
from  them  in  return ;  or  a  sheriff's  officer,  who  has  a  conscious- 
ness of  power,  but  none  of  good-will  to  or  from  any  body,  are 
equally  remote  from  the  beau  idtal  of  this  character.  A  man 
who  is  awkward  from  bashfulness  is  a  clown;  as  one  who  is 
showing  off  a  number  of  impertinent  airs  and  graces  at  every 
turn,  is  a  coxcomb,  or  an  upstart.  Mere  awkwardness  or  rus- 
ticity of  behaviour  may  arise,  either  from  want  of  presence  of 
mind  in  the  company  of  our  letters,  (the  commonest  hind  goes 

*  Wycherley  was  a  great  favourite  with  the  Duchess  of  Cleveland. 

9* 


TABLE  TALK. 


about  his  regular  business  without  any  of  the  mauvaise  honie,) 
from  a  deficiency  of  breeding,  as  it  is  called,  in  not  having  been 
taught  certain  fashionable  accomplishments — or  from  unremit- 
ting application  to  certain  sorts  of  mechanical  labour,  unfitting 
the  body  for  general  or  indifferent  uses.  (That  vulgarity  which 
proceeds  from  a  total  disregard  of  decorum,  and  want  of  careful 
control  over  the  different  actions  of  the  body — such  as  loud 
speaking,  boisterous  gesticulations,  &c.  is  rather  rudeness  and 
violence,  than  awkwardness  or  uneasy  restraint.)  Now  the  gen- 
tleman is  free  from  all  these  causes  of  ungraceful  demeanour. 
He  is  independent  in  his  circumstances,  and  is  used  to  enter  into 
society  on  equal  terms ;  he  is  taught  the  modes  of  address  and 
forms  of  courtesy  most  commonly  practised  and  most  proper  to 
ingratiate  him  into  the  good  opinion  of  those  he  associates  with ; 
and  he  is  relieved  from  the  necessity  of  following  any  of  those 
laborious  trades  or  callings  which  cramp,  strain,  and  distort  the 
human  frame.  He  is  not  bound  to  do  any  one  earthly  thing;  to 
use  any  exertion,  or  put  himself  in  any  posture,  that  is  not  per- 
fectly  easy  and  graceful,  agreeable  and  becoming.  Neither  is 
he  (at  the  present  day)  required  to  excel  in  any  art  or  science, 
game  or  exercise.  He  is  supposed  qualified  to  dance  a  minuet, 
not  to  dance  on  the  tight  rope — to  stand  upright,  not  to  stand  on 
his  head.  He  has  only  to  sacrifice  to  the  Graces.  Alcibiades 
threw  away  a  flute,  because  the  playing  on  it  discomposed  his 
features.  Take  the  fine  gentleman  out  of  the  common  boarding- 
school  or  drawing-room  accomplishments,  and  set  him  to  any 
ruder  or  more  difficult  task,  and  he  will  make  but  a  sorry  figure. 
Ferdinand  in  the  Tempest,  when  he  is  put  by  Prospero  to  carry  logs 
of  wood,  does  not  strike  us  as  a  very  heroical  character,  though 
he  loses  nothing  of  the  king's  son.  If  a  young  gallant  of  the 
first  fashion  were  asked  to  shoe  a  horse,  or  hold  a  plough,  or  fell 
a  tree,  he  would  make  a  very  ridiculous  business  of  the  first  ex- 
periment. I  saw  a  set  of  young  naval  officers,  very  genteel- 
looking  young  men,  playing  at  rackets  not  long  ago,  and  it  is 
impossible  to  describe  the  uncouthness  of  their  motions  and  un- 
accountable contrivances  for  hitting  the  ball.  Something  effemi- 
nate as  well  as  common-place,  then,  enters  into  the  composition 
of  the  gentleman :  he  is  a  little  of  the  petit  maitre  in  his  preten- 


ON  THE  LOOK  OF  A  GENTLEMAN. 


8ions.  He  is  only  graceful  and  accomplished  in  those  things  to 
which  he  has  paid  almost  his  whole  attention,  such  as  the  car- 
riage of  his  body,  and  adjustment  of  his  dress;  and  to  which  he 
is  of  sufficient  importance  in  the  scale  of  society  to  attract  the 
idle  attention  of  others. 

A  man's  manner  of  presenting  himself  in  company  is  but  a 
superficial  test  of  his  real  qualifications.  Serjeant  Atkinson,  we 
are  assured  by  Fielding,  would  have  marched  at  the  head  of  his 
platoon,  up  to  a  masked  battery,  with  less  apprehension  than  he 
came  into  a  room  full  of  pretty  women.  So  we  may  sometimes 
see  persons  look  foolish  enough  on  entering  a  party,  or  returning 
a  salutation,  who  instantly  feel  themselves  at  home  and  recover 
all  their  self-possession,  as  soon  as  any  of  that  sort  of  conversa- 
tion begins  from  which  nine-tenths  of  the  company  retire  in  the 
extremest  trepidation,  lest  they  should  betray  their  ignorance  or 
incapacity.  A  high  spirit  and  stubborn  pride  are  often  accom- 
panied with  an  unprepossessing  and  unpretending  appearance. 
The  greatest  heroes  do  not  discover  it  by  their  looks.  There  ares 
individuals  of  a  nervous  habit,  who  might  be  said  to  abhor  their 
own  persons,  and  to  startle  at  their  own  appearance,  as  the  pea- 
cock tries  to  hide  its  legs.  They  are  always  shy,  uncomfortable, 
restless  ;  and  all  their  actions  are,  in  a  manner,  at  cross-pur- 
poses with  themselves.  This,  of  course,  destroys  the  look  we  are 
speaking  of,  from  the  want  of  ease  and  self-confidence.  There 
is  another  sort  who  have  too  much  negligence  of  manner  and 
contempt  for  formal  punctilios.  They  take  their  full  swing  in 
whatever  they  are  about,  and  make  it  seem  almost  necessary  to 
get  out  of  their  way.  Perhaps  something  of  this  bold,  licentious, 
slovenly,  lounging  character  may  be  objected  by  a  fastidious  eye 
to  the  appearance  of  Lord  Castlereagh.  It  might  be  said  of  him, 
without  disparagement,  that  he  looks  more  like  a  lord  than  like  a 
gentleman.  We  see  nothing  petty  or  finical,  assuredly — nothing 
hard-bound  or  reined-in — but  a  flowing  outline,  a  broaii  free  style. 
He  sits  in  the  House  of  Commons,  with  his  hat  slouched  ov«f  his 
forehead,  and  a  sort  of  stoop  in  his  shoulders,  as  if  he  lowered 
over  his  antagonists,  like  a  bird  of  prey  over  its  quarry,  "  hatch- 
ing vain  empires."  There  is  an  irregular  grandeur  about  him, 
an  unwieldy  power,  loose,  disjointed,  "  voluminous  mid  vast," 


g  TABLE  TALK. 


coiled  up  in  the  folds  of  its  own  puiposes,  cold,  death-liite, 
smooth  and  smiling, — that  is  neither  quite  at  ease  with  itself,  nor 
safe  for  others  to  approach !  On  the  other  hand,  there  is  the 
Marquis  of  Wellesley,  a  jewel  of  a  man.  He  advances  into  his 
place  in  the  House  of  Lords,  with  head  erect,  and  his  best  foot 
foremost.  The  star  sparkles  on  his  breast,  and  the  garter  is  seen 
bound  tight  below  his  knee.  It  might  be  thought  that  he  still 
trod  a  measure  on  soft  carpets,  and  was  surrounded  not  only  by 
spiritual  and  temporal  lords,  but — 

"  Stores  of  ladies,  whose  bright  eyes 
Rain  influence,  and  judge  the  prize." 

The  chivalrous  spirit  that  shines  through  him,  the  air  of  gallantry 
in  his  personal  as  well  as  rhetorical  appeals  to  the  House,  glances 
a  partial  lustre  on  the  Woolsack  as  he  addresses  it ;  and  makes 
Lord  Erskine  raise  his  sunken  head  from  a  dream  of  transient 
popularity.  His  heedless  vanity  throws  itself  unblushingly  on 
the  unsuspecting  candour  of  his  hearers,  and  ravishes  mute  ad- 
miration. You  would  almost  guess  of  this  nobleman  beforehand 
that  he  was  a  marquis — something  higher  than  an  earl,  and  less 
important  than  a  duke.  Nature  has  just  fitted  him  for  the  niche 
he  fills  in  the  scale  of  rank  or  title.  He  is  a  finished  miniature- 
picture  set  in  brilliants:  Lord  Castlereagh  might  be  compared  to 
a  loose  sketch  in  oil,  not  properly  hung.  The  character  of  the 
one  is  ease, — of  the  other,  elegance.  Elegance  is  something  more 
than  ease ;  it  is  more  than  a  freedom  from  awkwardness  or  re- 
straint. It  implies,  I  conceive,  a  precision,  a  polish,  a  sparkling 
effect,  spirited  yet  delicate,  which  is  perfectly  exemplified  in  Lord 
Wellesley's  face  and  figure. 

The  greatest  contrast  to  this  little  lively  nobleman  was  the  late 
Lord  Stanhope.  Tall  above  his  peers,  he  presented  an  appear- 
ance something  between  a  Patagonian  chief  and  one  of  the  Long 
Parliament.  With  his  long  black  hair,  "  unkept  and  wild" — his 
black  clothes,  lank  features,  strange  antics,  and  screaming  voice, 
he  was  the  Orson  of  debate. 

"  A  Satyr  that  comes  staring  from  the  woodi, 
Cannot  at  first  speak  like  an  orator." 

Yet  he  was  both  an  orator  and  a   wit  in  his  way.      His  ha 


ON  THE   LOOK   OF  A    GENTLEMAN. 


rangues  were  an  odd  jumble  of  logic  and  mechanics,  of  the  sta- 
tutes at  large  and  Joe  Miller  jests,  of  stern  principle  and  sly 
humour,  of  shrewdness  and  absurdity,  of  method  and  madness. 
What  is  more  extraordinary,  he  was  an  honest  man.  He  was 
out  of  his  place  in  the  House  of  Lords.  He  particularly  de- 
lighted, in  his  eccentric  onsets,  to  make  havoc  of  the  bench  of 
bishops.  "  I  like,"  said  he,  "  to  argue  with  one  of  my  lords  the 
bishops  ;  and  the  reason  why  I  do  so  is,  that  I  generally  have 
the  best  of  the  argument."  He  was  altogether  a  different  man 
from  Lord  Eldon  ;  yet  his  lordship  "gave  him  good  oeillades," 
as  he  broke  a  jest,  or  argued  a  moot-point ;  and  while  he  spoke 
smiles,  roguish  twinkles  glittered  in  the  Chancellor's  eyes. 

The  look  of  the  gentleman,  "  the  nobleman  look,"  is  little  else 
thau  the  reflection  of  the  looks  of  the  world.  We  smile  at  those 
who  smile  upon  us  ;  we  are  gracious  to  those  who  pay  their  court 
to  us  :  we  naturally  acquire  confidence  and  ease  when  all  goes 
well  with  us,  when  we  are  encouraged  by  the  blandishments  of 
fortune,  and  the  good  opinion  of  mankind.  A  whole  street  bow- 
ing regularly  to  a  man,  every  time  he  rides  out,  may  teach  him 
how  to  pull  ofF  his  hat  in  return,  without  supposing  a  particular 
genius  for  bowing  (more  than  for  governing  or  any  thing  else) 
born  in  the  family.  It  has  been  observed  that  persons  who  sit 
for  their  pictures  improve  the  character  of  their  countenances, 
from  the  desire  they  have  to  procure  the  most  favorable  repre 
sentation  of  themselves.  "  Tell  me,  pray  good  Mr.  Carmine, 
when  you  come  to  the  eyes,  that  I  may  call  up  a  look,"  says  the 
Alderman's  wife,  jn  Foote's  farce  of  Taste.  Ladies  grow  hand- 
some by  looking  at  themselves  in  the  glass,  and  heightening  the 
agreeable  air  and  expression  of  features  they  so  much  admire 
there.  So  the  favourites  of  fortune  adjust  themselves  in  the  glass 
of  fashion  and  the  flattering  illusions  of  public  opinion.  Again, 
the  expression  of  face  in  the  gentleman,  or  thorough-bred  man  ot 
tne  world,  is  not  that  of  refinement  so  much  as  of  flexibility  ;  of 
sensibility  or  enthusiasm,  so  much  as  of  indifference  : — it  argues 
presence  of  mind,  rather  than  enlargement  of  ideas.  In  this  it 
differs  from  the  heroic  and  philosophical  look.  Instead  of  an  in- 
tense unity  of  purpose,  wound  up  to  some  great  occasion,  it  is 
dissipated  and  frittered  down  into    a  uumber  of  evanescent  expres- 


10  TABLE   TALK. 


sions,  fitted  for  every  variety  of  unimportant  occurrences :  in- 
stead of  the  expansion  of  general  thought  or  intellect,  you  trace 
chiefly  the  little,  trite,  cautious,  moveable  lines  of  conscious,  but 
concealed  self-complacency.  If  Raphael  had  painted  St.  Paul  as 
a  gentleman,  what  a  figure  he  would  have  made  of  the  great 
Apostle  of  the  Gentiles — occupied  with  himself,  not  carried  away, 
raised,  inspired  with  his  subject — insinuating  his  doctrines  into 
his  audience,  not  launching  them  from  him  with  the  tongues  of 
the  Holy  Spirit,  and  with  looks  of  fiery,  scorching  zeal  !  Gen- 
tlemen luckily  can  afford  to  sit  for  their  own  portraits  :  painters 
do  not  trouble  them  to  sit  as  studies  for  history.  What  a  differ- 
ence is  there  in  this  respect  between  a  Madonna  of  Raphael,  and  a 
lady  of  fashion,  even  by  Vandyke :  the  former  refined  and  elevated, 
the  latter  light  and  trifling,  with  no  emanation  of  soul,  no  depth  of 
feeling, — each  arch  expression  playing  on  the  surface,  and  passing 
into  any  other  at  pleasure, — no  one  thought  having  its  full  scope, 
but  checked  by  some  other, — soft,  careless,  insincere,  pleased, 
affected,  amiable  !  The  French  physiognomy  is  more  cut  up 
and  subdivided  into  petty  lines  and  sharp  angles  than  any  other : 
it  does  not  want  for  subtlety,  or  an  air  of  gentility,  which  last  it 
often  has  in  a  remarkable  degree, — but  it  is  the  most  unpoetical 
and  the  least  picturesque  of  all  others.  I  cannot' explain  what  I 
mean  by  this  variable  telegraphic  machinery  of  polite  expression 
better  than  by  an  obvious  allusion.  Every  one  by  walking  the 
streets  of  London  (or  any  other  populous  city)  acquires  a  walk 
which  is  easily  distinguished  from  that  of  strangers  ;  a  quick 
flexibility  of  movement,  a  smart  jerk,  an  aspiring  and  confident 
tread,  and  an  air  as  if  on  the  alert  to  keep  the  line  of  march  ; 
but  for  all  that,  there  is  not  much  grace  or  grandeur  in  this  local 
strut :  you  see  the  person  is  not  a  country-bumpkin,  but  you 
would  not  say,  he  is  a  hero  or  a  sage — because  he  is  a  cockney. 
So  it  is  in  passing  through  the  artificial  and  thickly  peopled 
scenes  of  life.  You  get  the  look  of  a  man  of  the  world  :  you 
rub  off  the  pedant  and  the  clown  ;  but  you  do  not  make  much 
progress  in  wisdom  or  virtue,  or  in  the  characteristic  expression 
of  either. 

The  character  of  a  gentleman  (I  take  it)  may  be  explained 
nearly  thus : — A  blackguard  (un  vaurien)  is  a  fellow  who  doe 


ON  THE  LOOK  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.  11 

not  care  whom  he  offends  : — a  clown  is  a  blockhead  who  does  not 
know  when  he  offends : — a  gentleman  is  one  who  understands 
and  shows  every  mark  of  deference  to  the  claims  of  self-love  in 
others,  and  exacts  it  in  return  from  them.  Politeness  and  the 
pretension  to  the  character  in  question  have  reference  almost 
entirely  to  this  reciprocal  manifestation  of  good-will  and  good 
opinion  towards  each  other  in  casual  society.  Morality  regulates 
our  sentiments  and  conduct  as  they  have  a  connection  with  ulti- 
mate and  important  consequences  : — manners,  properly  speaking, 
regulate  our  words  and  actions  in  the  routine  of  personal  inter- 
course. They  have  little  to  do  with  real  kindness  of  intention, 
or  practical  services,  or  disinterested  sacrifices;  but  they  put  on 
the  garb,  and  mock  the  appearance  of  these,  in  order  to  prevent 
a  breach  of  the  peace,  and  to  smooth  and  varnish  over  the  dis- 
cordant materials,  when  any  number  of  individuals  are  brought 
in  contact  together.  The  conventional  compact  of  good  man- 
ners does  not  reach  beyond  the  moment  and  the  company.  Say, 
for  instance,  that  the  rabble,  the  labouring  and  industrious  part 
of  the  community,  are  taken  up  with  supplying  their  own  wants, 
and  pining  over  their  own  hardships — scrambling  for  what  they 
can  get,  and  not  refining  on  any  of  their  pleasures,  or  troubling 
themselves  about  the  fastidious  pretensions  of  others :  again, 
there  are  philosophers  who  are  busied  in  the  pursuit  of  truth,  or 
patriots  who  are  active  for  the  good  of  their  country  ;  but  here, 
we  will  suppose,  are  a  knot  of  people  got  together,  who,  having 
no  serious  wants  of  their  own,  with  leisure  and  independence, 
and  caring  little  about  abstract  truth  or  practical  utility,  are  met 
for  no  mortal  purpose  but  to  say  and  to  do  all  manner  of  obliging 
things,  to  pay  the  greatest  possible  respect,  and  show  the  most 
delicate  and  flattering  attentions  to  one  another.  The  politest  set 
of  gentlemen  and  ladies  in  the  world  can  do  no  more  than  this. 
The  laws  that  regulate  this  species  of  select  and  fantastic  society 
are  co.nformable  to  its  ends  and  origin.  The  fine  gentleman  or 
„ady  must  not,  on  any  account,  say  a  rude  thing  to  the  persons 
present,  but  may  turn  them  into  the  utmost  ridicule  the  instant 
they  are  gone  :  nay,  not  to  do  so  is  sometimes  considered  as  an 
indirect  slight  to  the  party  that  remains.  You  must  compliment 
your  bitterest  foe  to  his  face,  and  may  slander  your  dearest  friend 
2 — part  r. 


12  TABLE  TALK. 


behind  his  back.  The  last  may  be  immoral,  but  it  is  not  un- 
mannerly. The  gallant  maintains  his  title  to  tnis  cnaracter  by 
treating  every  woman  he  meets  with  the  same  marked  and  unre- 
mitting attention  as  if  she  was  his  mistress  :  the  courtier  treats 
every  man  with  the  same  professions  of  esteem  and  kindness  as 
if  he  were  an  accomplice  with  him  in  some  plot  against  mankind. 
Of  course,  these  professions,  made  only  to  please,  go  for  nothing 
in  practice.  To  insist  on  them  afterwards  as  literal  obligations, 
would  be  to  betray  an  ignorance  of  this  kind  of  interlude  or  mas- 
querading in  real  life.  To  ruin  your  friend  at  play  is  not  incon- 
sistent with  the  character  of  a  gentleman  and  a  man  of  honour, 
if  it  is  done  with  civility  ;  though  to  warn  him  of  his  danger, 
so  as  to  imply  a  doubt  of  his  judgment,  or  interference  with  his 
will,  would  be  to  subject  yourself  to  be  run  through  the  body 
with  a  sword.  It  is  that  which  wounds  the  self-love  of  the  indi- 
vidual that  is  offensive — that  which  flatters  it  that  is  welcome — 
however  salutary  the  one,  or  however  fatal  the  other  may  be.  A 
habit  of  plain-speaking  is  totally  contrary  to  the  tone  of  good- 
breeding.  You  must  prefer  the  opinion  of  the  company  to  your 
own,  and  even  to  truth.  I  doubt  whether  a  gentleman  must  not 
be  of  the  Established  Church,  and  a  Tory.  A  true  cavalier  can 
only  be  a  martyr  to  prejudice  or  fashion.  A  Whig  lord  appears 
to  me  as  great  an  anomaly  as  a  patriot  king.  A  sectary  is  sour 
and  unsociable.  A  philosopher  is  quite  out  of  the  question.  He 
is  in  the  clouds,  and  had  better  not  be  let  down  on  the  floor  in  a 
basket,  to  play  the  blockhead.  He  is  sure  to  commit  himself 
in  good  company — and  by  dealing  always  in  abstractions,  and 
driving  at  generalities,  to  offend  against  the  three  proprieties  of 
time,  place,  and  person.  Authors  are  angry,  loud,  and  vehe- 
ment in  argument :  the  man  of  more  refined  breeding,  who  has 
been  "  all  tranquillity  and  smiles,"  goes  away,  and  tries  to  ruin 
the  antagonist  whom  he  could  not  vanquish  in  a  dispute.  The 
manners  of  a  court  and  of  a  polished  life  are  by  no  means  down- 
right, straight-forward,  but  the  contrary.  They  have  something 
dramatic  in  them  ;  each  person  plays  an  assumed  part ;  the  af- 
fected, overstrained  politeness  and  suppression  of  real  sentiment 
lead  to  concealed  irony  and  a  spirit  of  satire  and  raillery  ;  and 


ON  THE  LOOK  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.  13 

hence  we  may  account  for  the  perfection  of  the  genteel  comedy 
of  the.  century  before  the  last,  when  poets  were  allowed  to  mingle 
in  the  court-circles,  and  took  their  cue  from  the  splendid  ring 

"  Of  mimic  statesmen  and  their  merry  king.'' 

The  essence  of  this  sort  of  conversation  and  intercourse,  both 
on  and  off  the  stage,  has  somehow  since  evaporated  ;  the  disguises 
of  royalty,  nobility,  gentry,  have  been  in  some  measure  seen 
through  :  we  have  become  individually  of  little  importance,  com- 
pared with  greater  objects,  in  the  eyes  of  our  neighbours,  and 
even  in  our  own  :  abstract  topics,  not  personal  pretensions,  are 
the  order  of  the  day ;  so  that  what  remains  of  the  character  we 
have  been  talking  of,  is  chiefly  exotic  and  provincial,  and  may  be 
seen  still  flourishing  in  country-places,  in  a  wholesome  state  of 
vegetable  decay ! 

A  man  may  have  the  manners  of  a  gentleman  without  having 
the  look,  and  he  may  have  the  character  of  a  gentleman,  in  a 
more  abstracted  point  of  view,  without  the  manners.  The  feel- 
ings of  a  gentleman,  in  this  higher  sense,  only  denote  a  more 
refined  humanity — a  spirit  delicate  in  itself,  and  unwilling  to 
offend,  either  in  the  greatest  or  the  smallest  things.  This  may 
be  coupled  with  absence  of  mind,  with  ignorance  of  forms,  and 
frequent  blunders.  But  the  will  is  good.  The  spring  of  gentle 
offices  and  true  regards  is  untainted.  A  person  of  this  stamp 
blushes  at  an  impropriety  he  was  guilty  of  twenty  years  before, 
though  he  is,  perhaps,  liable  to  repeat  it  to-morrow.  He  never 
forgives  himself  for  even  a  slip  of  the  tongue,  that  implies  an 
assumption  of  superiority  over  any  one.  In  proportion  to  the 
concessions  made  to  him,  he  lowers  his  demands.  He  gives  the 
wall  to  a  beggar  :*  but  does  not  always  bow  to  great  men.    This 

*  The  writer  of  this  Essay  once  saw  a  Prince  of  the  Blood  pull  off  his  hat 
to  every  one  in  the  street,  till  he  came  to  the  beggarman  that  swept  the  cross- 
ing. This  was  a  nice  distinction.  Farther,  it  was  a  distinction  that  the  writer 
of  this  Essay  would  not  make  to  be  a  Prince  of  the  Blood.  Perhaps,  however, 
a  question  might  be  started  in  the  manner  of  Montaigne,  whether  the  beggar 
did  not  pull  off  his  hat  in  quality  of  asking  charity,  and  not  as  a  mark  of  re- 
spect    Now  a  prince  may  decline  giving  charity,  though  he  is  obliged  to 


U  TABLE  TALK. 

class  of  character  has  been  called  "  God  Almighty's  gentlemen." 
There  are  not  a  great  many  of  them. — The  late  G.  Dyer  wag 
one  ;  for  we  understand  that  that  gentleman  was  not  able  to  sur- 
vive some  ill-disposed  person's  having  asserted  of  him,  that  he 
had  mistaken  Lord  Castlereagh  for  the  Author  of  Waverley ! 

return  a  civility.  If  he  does  not,  he  may  be  treated  with  disrespect  another 
time,  and  that  is  an  alternative  he  is  bound  to  prevent.  Any  other  person 
might  set  up  such  a  plea,  but  the  person  to  whom  a  whole  street  had  been 
bowing  just  before. 


ON  READING  OLD  BOOKS.  15 


ESSAY   XVIII. 

On  Reading  Old   Books. 

I  hate  to  read  new  books.  There  are  twenty  or  thirty  volumes 
that  I  have  read  over  and  over  again,  and  these  are  the  only 
ones  that  I  have  any  desire  ever  to  read  at  all.  It  was  a  long 
time  before  I  could  bring  myself  to  sit  down  to  the  Tales  of  My 
Landlord,  but  now  that  author's  works  have  made  a  consider- 
able addition  to  my  scanty  library.  I  am  told  that  some  of  Lady 
Morgan's  are  good,  and  have  been  recommended  to  look  into 
Anastasius  ;  but  I  have  not  yet  ventured  upon  that  task.  A 
lady,  the  other  day,  could  not  refrain  from  expressing  her  sur- 
prise to  a  friend,  who  said  he  had  been  reading  Delphine  : — she 
asked — "  If  it  had  not  been  published  some  time  back  ?"  Wo- 
men judge  of  books  as  they  do  of  fashions  or  complexions,  which 
are  admired  only  in  their  newest  gloss."  That  is  not  my  way. 
I  am  not  one  of  those  who  trouble  the  circulating  libraries  much, 
or  pester  the  booksellers  for  mail-coach  copies  of  standard  pe- 
riodical publications.  I  cannot  say  that  I  am  greatly  addicted  to 
black-letter,  but  I  profess  myself  well  versed  in  the  marble  bind^ 
ings  of  Andrew  Millar,  in  the  middle  of  the  last  century ;  nor 
does  my  taste  revolt  at  Thurloe's  State  Papers,  in  Russia  leather ; 
or  an  ample  impression  of  Sir  William  Temple's  Essays,  with  a 
portrait  after  Sir  Godfrey  Kneller  in  front.  I  do  not  think  alto- 
gether the  worse  of  a  book  for  having  survived  the  author  a 
generation  or  two.  I  have  more  confidence  in  the  dead  than  the 
living.  Contemporary  writers  may  generally  be  divided  into 
two  classes — one's  friends  or  one's  foes.  Of  the  first  we  are 
compelled  to  think  too  well,  and  of  the  last  we  are  disposed  to 
think  too  ill,  to  receive  much  genuine  pleasure  from  the  perusal, 
cr  to  judge  fairly  of  the  merits  of  either.  One  candidate  for 
literary  fame,  who  happens  to  be  of  our  acquaintance,  writes 


16  TABLE  TALK. 

finely,  and  like  a  man  of  genius ;  but  unfortunately  has  a  foolish 
face,  which  spoils  a  delicate  passage  : — another  inspires  us  with 
the  highest  respect  for  his  personal  talents  and  character,  but 
does  not  quite  come  up  to  our  expectations  in  print.  All  th^se 
contradictions  and  petty  details  interrupt  the  calm  current  of 
our  reflections.  If  you  want  to  know  what  any  of  the  authors 
were  who  lived  before  our  time,  and  are  still  objects  of  anxious 
inquiry,  you  have  only  to  look  into  their  works.  But  the  dust 
and  smoke  and  noise  of  modern  literature  have  nothing  in  com- 
mon with  the  pure,  silent  air  of  immortality. 

When  I  take  up  a  work  that  I  have  read  before  (the  oftener 
the  better)  I  know  what  I  have  to  expect.  The  satisfaction  is 
not  lessened  by  being  anticipated.  When  the  entertainment  is 
altogether  new,  I  sit  down  to  it  as  I  should  to  a  strange  dish — 
turn  and  pick  out  a  bit  here  and  there,  and  am  in  doubt  what  to 
think  of  the  composition.  There  is  a  want  of  confidence  and 
security  to  second  appetite.  New-fangled  books  are  also  like 
made-dishes  in  this  respect,  that  they  are  generally  little  else 
than  hashes  and  rifaccimentos  of  what  has  been  served  up  entire 
and  in  a  more  natural  state  at  other  times.  Besides,  in  thus 
turning  to  a  well-known  author,  there  is  not  only  an  assurance 
that  my  time  will  not  be  thrown  away,  or  my  palate  nauseated 
with  the  most  insipid  or  vilest  trash, — but  I  shake  hands  with, 
and  look  an  old,  tried,  and  valued  friend  in  the  face, — compare 
notes,  and  chat  the  hours  away.  It  is  true,  we  form  dear  friend- 
ships with  such  ideal  guests — dearer,  alas !  and  more  lasting, 
than  those  with  our  most  intimate  acquaintance.  •  In  reading  a 
book  which  is  an  old  favourite  with  me  (say  the  first  novel  I  ever 
read)  I  not  only  have  the  pleasure  of  imagination  and  of  a  criti- 
cal relish  of  the  work,  but  the  pleasures  of  memory  added  to  it. 
It  recalls  the  same  feelings  and  associations  which  I  had  in  first 
reading  it,  and  which  I  can  never  have  again  in  any  other  way. 
Standard  productions  of  this  kind  are  links  in  the  chain  of  our 
conscious  being.  They  bind  together  the  different  scattered  di- 
visions of  our  personal  identity.  They  are  land-marks  and 
guides  in  our  journey  through  life.  They  are  pegs  and  loops  on 
which  we  can  hang  up,  or  from  which  we  can  take  down,  at 
pleasure,  the  wardrobe  of  a  moral  imagination,  the  relics  of  our 


ON  READING  OLD  BOOKS.  17 

best  affections,  the  tokens  and  records  of  our  happiest  hours. 
They  are  "  for  thoughts  and  for  remembrance  !"  They  are  like 
Fortunatus's  Wishing-Cap — they  give  us  the  best  riches — those 
of  Fancy  ;  and  transport  us,  not  over  half  the  globe,  but  (which 
is  better)  over  half  our  lives,  at  a  word's  notice ! 

My  father  Shandy  solaced  himself  with  Bruscambille.  Give 
me  for  this  purpose  a  volume  of  Peregrine  Pickle  or  Tom  Jones. 
Open  either  of  them  any  where — at  the  Memoirs  of  Lady  Vane, 
or  the  adventures  at  the  masquerade  with  Lady  Bellaston,  or  the 
disputes  between  Thwackum  and  Square,  or  the  escape  of  Molly 
Seagrim,  or  the  incident  of  Sophia  and  her  muff,  or  the  edifying 
prolixity  of  her  aunt's  lecture — and  there  I  find  the  same  delight- 
ful, busy,  bustling  scene  as  ever,  and  feel  myself  the  same  as 
when  I  was  first  introduced  into  the  midst  of  it.  Nay,  sometimes 
the  sight  of  an  odd  volume  of  these  good  old  English  authors  on 
a  stall,  or  the  name  lettered  on  the  back  among  others  on  the 
shelves  of  a  library,  answers  the  purpose,  revives  the  whole 
train  of  ideas,  and  sets  "  the  puppets  dallying."  Twenty  years 
are  struck  off  the  list,  and  I  am  a  child  again.  A  sage  philoso- 
pher, who  was  not  a  very  wise  man,  said,  that  he  should  like 
very  well  to  be  young  again,  if  he  could  take  his  experience 
along  with  him.  The  ingenious  person  did  not  seem  to  be  aware, 
by  the  gravity  of  his  remark,  that  the  great  advantage  of  being 
young  is  to  be  without  this  weight  of  experience,  which  he  would 
fain  place  upon  the  shoulders  of  youth,  and  which  never  comes 
too  late  with  years.  Oh  !  what  a  privilege  to  be  able  to  let  this 
hump,  like  Christian's  burthen,  drop  from  off  one's  back,  and 
transport  one's-self,  by  the  help  of  a  little  musty  duodecimo,  to 
the  time  when  "  ignorance  was  bliss,"  and  when  we  first  got  a 
peep  at  the  raree-show  of  the  world,  through  the  glass  of  fiction 
— gazing  at  mankind,  as  we  do  at  wild  beasts  in  a  menagerie, 
through  the  bars  of  their  cages — or  at  curiosities  in  a  museum, 
that  we  must  not  touch  !  For  myself,  not  only  are  the  old  ideas 
of  the  contents  of  the  work  brought  back  to  my  mind  in  all  their 
vividness,  but  the  old  associations  of  the  faces  and  persons  of 
those  I  then  knew,  as  they  were  in  their  life-time — the  place 
where  I  sat  to  read  the  volume,  the  day  when  I  got  it,  the  feeling 
of  the  air,  the  fields,  the  sky — return,  and  all  my  early  impros- 


18  TABLE  TALK. 


sions  with  them.  This  is  better  to  me — those  places,  those  *imes, 
those  persons,  and  those  feelings  that  come  across  me  as  I  re*-ace 
the  story  and  devour  the  page,  are  to  me  better  far  than  the  wet 
sheets  of  the  last  new  novel  from  the  Ballantyne  press,  to  say 
nothing  of  the  Minerva  press  in  Leadenhall  street.  It  is  like 
visiting  the  scenes  of  early  youth.  I  think  of  the  time  "  when  I 
was  in  my  father's  house,  and  my  path  ran  down  with  butter 
and  honey," — when  I  was  a  little,  thoughtless  child,  and  had  no 
other  wish  or  care  but  to  con  my  daily  task,  and  be  happy  ! — 
Tom  Jones,  I  remember,  was  the  first  work  that  broke  the  spell. 
It  came  down  in  numbers  once  a  fertnight,  in  Cooke's  pocket- 
edition,  embellished  with  cuts.  I  had  hitherto  read  only  in 
school-books,  and  a  tiresome  ecclesiastical  history  (with  the  ex- 
ception of  Mrs.  Radcliffe's  Romance  of  the  Forest)  :  but  this  had 
a  different  relish  with  it, — "  sweet  in  the  mouth,"  though  not  "  bit- 
ter in  the  belly."  It  smacked  of  the  world  I  lived  in,  and  in 
which  I  was  to  live — and  showed  me  groups,  "  gay  creatures" 
not  "  of  the  element,"  but  of  the  earth ;  not  "  living  in  the 
clouds,"  but  travelling  the  same  road  that  I  did ;  some  that  had 
passed  on  before  me,  and  others  that  might  soon  overtake  me. 
My  heart  had  palpitated  at  the  thoughts  of  a  boarding-school 
ball,  or  gala-day  at  Midsummer  or  Christmas :  but  the  world  I 
had  found  out  in  Cooke's  edition  of  the  British  Novelists  was  to 
me  a  dance  through  life,  a  perpetual  gala-day.  The  sixpenny 
numbers  of  this  work  regularly  contrived  to  leave  off  just  in  the 
middle  of  a  sentence,  and  in  the  nick  of  a  story,  where  Tom 
Jones  discovers  Square  behind  the  blanket ;  or  where  Parson 
Adams,  in  the  inextricable  confusion  of  events,  very  undesign- 
edly gets  to  bed  to  Mrs.  Slip-slop.  Let  me  caution  the  reader 
against  this  impression  of  Joseph  Andrews ;  for  there  is  a  pic- 
ture of  Fanny  in  it  which  he  should  not  set  his  heart  on,  lest  he 
should  never  meet  with  any  thing  like  it :  or  if  he  should,  it 
would,  perhaps,  be  better  for  him  that  he  had  not.     It  was  just 

like !     With  what  eagerness  I  used  to  look  forward  to 

the  next  number,  and  open  the  prints !  Ah  !  never  again  shall  I 
feel  the  enthusiastic  delight  with  which  I  gazed  at  the  figures, 
and  anticipated  the  story  and  adventures  of  Major  Bath  and 
Commodore  Trunnion,  of  Trim  and  my  Uncle  Toby,  of  Don 


ON   READING   OLD   BOOKS.  It 

Quixote,  and  Sancho,  and  Dapple,  of  Gil  Bias  aud  Dame  Loreu- 
za  Sephora,  of  Laura  and  the  fair  Lucretia,  whose  lips  open  and 
shut  like  buds  of  roses.  To  what  nameless  ideas  did  they  give 
rise — with  what  airy  delights  I  filled  up  the  outlines,  as  I  hung 
in  silence  over  the  page  1  Let  me  still  recall  them  that  they 
may  breathe  fresh  life  into  me,  and  that  I  may  live  that  birth- 
day of  thought  and  romantic  pleasure  over  again  !  Talk  of 
the  ideal!  This  is  the  only  true  ideal — the  heavenly  tints  of 
Fancy  reflected  in  the  bubbles  that  float  upon  the  spring-tide  of 
human  life. 

"  Oh,  Memory !  shield  me  from  the  world's  poor  strife, 
And  give  those  scenes  thine  everlasting  life !" 

The  paradox  with  which  I  set  out  is,  I  hope,  less  startling  than 
it  was  \  the  reader  will,  by  this  time,  have  been  let  into  my  se- 
cret. Much  about  the  same  time,  or  I  believe  rather  earlier,  I 
took  a  particular  satisfaction  in  reading  Chubb's  Tracts,  and  I 
often  think  I  will  get  them  again  to  wade  through.  There  is  a  high 
gusto  of  polemical  divinity  in  them  ;  and  you  fancy  that  you  hear 
a  club  of  shoemakers  at  Salisbury,  debating  a  disputable  text 
from  one  of  St.  Paul's  Epistles  in  a  workmanlike  style,  with 
equal  shrewdness  and  pertinacity.  I  cannot  say  much  for  my 
metaphysical  studies,  into  which  I  launched  shortly  after  with 
great  ardour,  so  as  to  make  a  toil  of  a  pleasure.  I  was  presently 
entangled  in  the  briers  and  thorns  of  subtle  distinctions — of 
"  fate,  free-will,  foreknowledge  absolute,"  though  I  cannot  add 
that  "  in  their  wandering  maze  I  found  no  end  ;"  for  I  did  ar 
rive  at  some  very  satisfactory  and  potent  conclusions ;  nor  will 
I  go  so  far,  however  ungrateful  the  subject  might  seem,  as  to  ex- 
claim with  Marlowe's  Faustus,  "  Would  I  had  never  seen  Wit- 
tenberg, never  read  book" — that  is,  never  studied  such  authors 
as  Hartley,  Hume,  Berkeley,  &c.  Locke's  Essay  on  the  Hu- 
man Understanding  is,  however,  a  work  from  which  I  never  de- 
rived either  pleasure  or  profit ;  and  Hobbes,  dry  and  powerful 
as  he  is,  I  did  not  read  till  long  afterwards.  I  read  a  few  poets, 
which  did  not  much  hit  my  taste,  for  I  would  have  the  reader  un- 
derstand, I  am  deficient  in  the  faculty  of  imagination ;  but  I  fell 
early  upon  French  romances  and  philosophy,  and  devoured  them 


TABLE  TALK. 


tooth-and-nail.  Many  a  dainty  repast  have  I  made  of  the  New 
Eloise  ; — the  description  of  the  kiss ;  the  excursion  on  the  water ; 
the  letter  of  St.  Preux,  recalling  the  time  of  their  first  loves  ;  and 
the  account  of  Julia's  death  ;  these  I  read  over  and  over  again 
with  unspeakable  delight  and  wonder.  Some  years  after,  when  I 
met  with  this  work  again,  I  found  I  had  lost  nearly  my  whole 
relish  for  it  (except  some  few  parts,)  and  was,  I  remember,  very 
much  mortified  with  the  change  in  my  taste,  which  I  sought  to 
attribute  to  the  smallness  and  gilt  edges  of  the  edition  I  had 
bought,  and  its  being  perfumed  with  rose-leaves.  Nothing  could 
exceed  the  gravity,  the  solemnity  with  which  I  carried  home  and 
read  the  Dedication  to  the  Social  Contract,  with  some  other  pieces 
of  the  same  author,  which  I  had  picked  up  at  a  stall  in  a  coarse 
leathern  cover.  Of  the  Confessions  I  have  spoken  elsewhere 
and  may  repeat  what  I  have  said — "  Sweet  is  the  dew  of  thei. 
memory,  and  pleasant  the  balm  of  their  recollection !"  Thei . 
beauties  are  not  "  scattered  like  stray-gifts  o'er  the  earth,"  but 
sown  thick  on  the  page,  rich  and  rare.  I  wish  I  had  never  read 
the  Emilius,  or  read  it  with  less  implicit  faith.  I  had  no  oc- 
casion to  pamper  my  natural  aversion  to  affectation  or  pretence, 
by  romantic  and  artificial  means.  I  had  better  have  formed  my- 
self on  the  model  of  Sir  Fopling  Flutter.  There  is  a  class  ot 
persons  whose  virtues  and  most  shining  qualities  sink  in,  and  are 
concealed  by,  an  absorbent  ground  of  modesty  and  reserve  ; 
and  such  a  one  I  do,  without  vanity,  profess  myself.*  Now  these 
are  the  very  persons  who  are  likely  to  attach  themselves  to  the 
character  of  Emilius,  and  of  whom  it  is  sure  to  be  the  bane. 
This  dull,  phlegmatic,  retiring  humour  is  not  in  a  fair  way  to  be 
corrected,  but  confirmed  and  rendered  desperate  by  being  in  that 
work  held  up  as  an  object  of  imitation,  as  an  example  of  simpli- 
city and  magnanimity — by  coming  upon  us  with  all  the  recom- 
mendations of  novelty,  surprise,  and  superiority  to  the  prejudices 
of  the  world — by  being  stuck  upon  a  pedestal,  made  amiable, 

*  Nearly  the  same  sentiment  was  wittily  and  happily  expressed  by  a  friend, 
who  had  some  lottery-puffs,  which  he  had  been  employed  to  write,  returned 
on  his  hands  for  their  too  great  severity  of  thought  and  classical  terseness  of 
style,  and  who  observed  on  that  occasion,  that  "  Modest  merit  never  can  suc- 
ceed!" 


ON  READING  OLD  BOOKS.  81 

dazzling,  a  leurre  de  dupe  !  The  reliance  on  solid  worth  which  it 
inculcates,  the  preference  of  sober  truth  to  gaudy  tinsel,  hangs 
like  a  mill-stone  round  the  neck  of  th3  imagination — "  a  load  to 
sink  a  navy" — impedes  our  progress,  and  blocks  up  every  pros- 
pect in  life.  A  man,  to  get  on,"  to  be  successful,  conspicuous, 
applauded,  should  not  retire  upon  the  centre  of  his  conscious  re- 
sources, but  be  always  at  the  circumference  of  appearances.  He 
must  envelop  himself  in  a  halo  of  mystery — he  must  ride  in  an 
equipage  of  opinion — he  must  walk  with  a  train  of  self-conceit 
following  him — he  must  ,not  strip  himself  to  a  buff-jerkin,  to  the 
doublet  and  hose  of  his  real  merits,  but  must  surround  himself 
with  a  cortege  of  prejudices,  like  the  signs  of  the  Zodiac — he  must 
seem  any  thing  but  what  he  is,  and  then  he  may  pass  for  any 
thing  he  pleases.  The  world  love  to  be  amused  by  hollow  pro- 
fessions, to  be  deceived  by  flattering  appearances,  to  live  in  a 
state  of  hallucination  j  and  can  forgive  every  thing  but  the  plain, 
downright,  simple  honest  truth — such  as  we  see  it  chalked  out  in 
the  character  of  Emilius. — To  return  from  this  digression,  which 
is  a  little  out  of  place  here. 

Books  have  in  a  great  measure  lost  their  power  over  me ;  nor 
can  I  revive  the  same  interest  in  them  as  formerly.  I  perceive 
when  a  thing  is  good,  rather  than  feel  it.     It  is  true, 

Marcian  Colonna.is  a  dainty  book  ; 

and  the  reading  of  Mr.  Keats's  Eve  of  Saint  Agnes  lately  made 
me  regret  that  I  was  not  young  again.  The  beautiful  and  tender 
images  there  conjured  up,  "  come  like  shadows — so  depart." 
The  "tiger-moth's  wings,"  which  he  has  spread  over  his  rich 
poetic  blazonry,  just  flit  across  my  fancy ;  the  gorgeous  twilight 
window  which  he  has  painted  over  again  in  his  verse,  to  me 
"  blushes"  almost  in  vain  "  with  blood  of  queens  and  kings."  I 
know  how  I  should  have  felt  at  one  time  in  reading  such  pas- 
sages ;  and  that  is  all.  The  sharp  luscious  flavour,  the  fine 
aroma  is  fled,  and  nothing  but  the  stalk,  the  bran,  the  husk  of 
literature  is  left.  If  any  one  were  to  ask  me  what  I  read  now, 
I  might  answer  with  my  Lord  Hamlet  in  the  play — "  Words, 
words,  words." — "  What  is  the  matter  ?" — "  Nothing  /" — They 
have  scarce  a  meaning.     But  it  was  not  always  so.     There  wem 

10 


22  TABLE  TALK. 


a  time  when,  to  my  thinking,  every  word  was  a  flower  or  a  pearl, 
like  those  which  dropped  from  the  mouth  of  the  little  peasant-girl 
in  the  fairy  tale,  or  like  those  that  fall  from  the  great  preacher 
in  the  Caledonian  Chapel !  I  drank  of  the  stream  of  knowledge 
that  tempted,  but  did  not  mock  my  lips,  as  of  the  river  of  life 
freely.  How  eagerly  I  slaked  my  thirst  of  German  sentiment, 
"  as  the  hart  that  panteth  for  the  water-springs  ;"  how  I  bathed 
and  revelled,  and  added  my  floods  of  tears  to  Goethe's  Sorrows 
of  Werter,  and  to  Schiller's  Robbers — 

Giving  my  stock  of  more  to  that  which  had  too  much  ! 

I  read,  and  assented  with  all  my  soul  to  Coleridge's  fine  Son- 
net,  beginning — 

"  Schiller !  that  hour  I  would  have  wish'd  to  die, 
If  through  the  shuddering  midnight  I  had  sent. 
From  the  dark  dungeon  of  the  tow'r  time-rent, 
That  fearful  voice,  a  famish'd  father's  cry!" 

I  believe  I  may  date  my  insight  into  the  mysteries  of  poetry 
from  the  commencement  of  my  acquaintance  with  the  authors  of 
the  Lyrical  Ballads ;  at  least,  my  discrimination  of  the  higher 
sorts — not  my  predilection  for  such  writers  as  Goldsmith  or  Pope : 
nor  do  I  imagine  they  will  say  I  got  my  liking  for  our  Novelists 
or  Comic  Writers, — for  the  characters  of  Valentine,  Tattle,  or 
Miss  Prue, — from  them.  If  so,  I  must  have  got  from  them  what 
they  never  had  themselves.  In  points  where  poetic  diction  and 
conception  are  concerned,  I  may  be  at  a  loss,  and  liable  to  be 
imposed  upon :  but  in  forming  an  estimate  of  passages  relating  to 
common  life  and  manners,  I  cannot  think  I  am  a  plagiarist  from 
any  man.  I  there  "  know  my  cue  without  a  prompter."  I  may 
say  of  such  studies — lntus  et  in  cute.  I  am  just  able  to  admire 
those  literal  touches  of  observation  and  description,  which  persons 
of  loftier  pretensions  overlook  and  despise.  I  think  I  comprehend 
something  of  the  characteristic  part  of  Shakespear  ;  and  in  him, 
indeed,  all  is  characteristic,  even  the  nonsense  and  poetry.  I 
believe  it  was  the  celebrated  Sir  Humphrey  Davy  who  used  to 
say,  that  Shakespear  was  rather  a  metaphysician  than  a  poet. 
At  any  rate,  it  was  not  ill  said.     I  wish  that  I  had  sooner  known 


ON  READING  OLD  BOOKS.  23 

the  dramatic  writers  contemporary  with  Shakespear ;  for  in  look- 
ing them  over  about  a  year  ago,  I  almost  revived  my  old  passion 
for  reading,  and  my  old  delight  in  books,  though  they  were  very 
nearly  new  to  me.  The  Periodical  Essayists  I  read  long  ago. 
The  Spectator  I  liked  extremely :  but  the  Tattler  took  my  fancy 
most.  I  read  the  others  soon  after,  the  Rambler,  the  Adventurer, 
the  World,  the  Connoisseur :  1  was  not  sorry  to  get  to  the  end  of 
them,  and  have  no  desire  to  go  regularly  through  them  again.  1 
consider  myself  a  thorough  adept  in  Richardson.  I  like  the  longest 
of  his  novels  best,  and  think  no  part  of  them  tedious  ;  nor  should 
I  ask  to  have  any  thing  better  to  do  than  to  read  them  from  begin- 
ning to  end,  to  take  them  up  when  I  chose,  and  lay  them  down 
when  I  was  tired,  in  some  old  family  mansion  in  the  country,  till 
every  word  and  syllable  relating  to  the  bright  Clarissa,  the  divine 
Clementina,  the  beautiful  Pamela,  "  with  every  trick  and  line  of 
their  sweet  favour,"  were  once  more  "  graven  in  my  heart's 
tables."*  I  have  a  sneaking  kindness  for  Mackenzie's  Julia  de 
Roubigne — for  the  deserted  mansion,  and  straggling  gilliflowers 
on  the  mouldering  garden-wall ;  and  still  more  for  his  Man  of 
Feeling ;  not  that  it  is  better,  nor  so  good  ;  but  at  the  time  I  read 

it  I  sometimes  thought  of  the  heroine,  Miss  Walton,  and  of  Miss 

together,  and  "  that  ligament,  fine  as  it  was,  was  never  broken !" 
— One  of  the  poets  that  I  have  always  read  with  most  pleasure, 
and  can  wander  about  in  for  ever  with  a  sort  of  voluptuous  indo- 
lence, is  Spenser  ;  and  I  like  Chaucer  even  better.  The  only 
writer  among  the  Italians  I  can  pretend  to  any  knowledge  of,  is 
Boccacio,  and  of  him  I  cannot  express  half  my  admiration.  His 
story  of  the  Hawk  I  could  read  and  think  of  from  day  to  day,  just 
as  I  would  look  at  a  picture  of  Titian's  ! 

I  remember,  as  long  ago  as  the  year  1798,  going  to  a  neighbour- 
ing town  (Shrewsbury,  where  Farquhar  has  laid  the  plot  of  his 

*  During  the  peace  of  Amiens,  a  young  English  officer,  of  the  name  of 
Lovelace,  was  presented  at  Bonaparte's  levee.  Instead  of  the  usual  question, 
"  Where  have  you  served,  Sir !"  the  First  Consul  immediately  addressed  him, 
"  I  perceive  your  name,  Sir,  is  the  same  as  that  of  the  hero  of  Richardson's 
Romance  !"  Here  was  a  Consul.  The  young  man's  uncle,  who  was  called 
Lovelace,  told  mc  this  anecdote  while  we  were  stopping  together  at  Calais.  1 
had  also  been  thinking  that  his  was  the  same  name  as  that  of  the  hero  of 
Richardson's  Romance.     This  is  one  of  my  reasons  for  liking  Bonaparte. 

10 


24  TABLE  TALK. 


Recruitirg  Officer.)  and  bringing  home  with  me,  "at  one  proud 
swoop,"  a  copy  of  Milton's  Paradise  Lost,  and  another  of  Burke's 
Reflections  on  the  French  Revolution — both  which  I  have  still ; 
and  I  still  recollect,  when  I  see  the  covers,  the  pleasure  with 
which  I  dipped  into  them  as  I  returned  with  my  double  prize.  I 
was  set  up  for  one  while.  That  time  is  past  "  with  all  its  giddy 
raptures":"  but  I  am  still  anxious  to  preserve  its  memory,  "em- 
balmed with  odours." — With  respect  to  the  first  of  these  works, 
I  would  be  permitted  to  remark  here  in  passing,  that  it  is  a  suffi- 
cient answer  to  the  German  criticism  which  has  since  been 
started  against  the  character  of  Satan,  (viz.  that  it  is  not  one 
of  disgusting  deformity,  or  pure,  defecated  malice,)  to  say  that 
Milton  has  there  drawn,  not  the  abstract  principle  of  evil,  not  a 
devil  incarnate,  but  a  fallen  angel.  This  is  the  scriptural  ac- 
count, and  the  poet  has  followed  it.  We  may  safely  retain  such 
passages  as  that  well-known  one — 

"  His  form  had  not  yet  lost 

All  her  original  brightness ;  nor  appear'd 
Less  than  archangel  ruin'd,  and  the  excess 
Of  glory  obscur'd" — 

for  the  theory,  which  is  opposed  to  them,  "  falls  flat  upon  the 
grunsel  edge,  and  shames  its  worshippers."  Let  us  hear  no 
more  then  of  this  monkish  cant,  and  bigoted  outcry  for  the  re- 
storation of  the  horns  and  tail  of  the  devil  ! — Again,  as  to  the 
other  work,  Burke's  Reflections,  I  took  a  particular  pride  and 
pleasure  in  it,  and  read  it  to  myself  and  others  for  months  after, 
wards.  I  had  reason  for  my  prejudice  in  favour  of  this  author. 
To  understand  an  adversary  is  some  praise :  to  admire  him  w 
more.  I  thought  I  did  both  :  I  knew  I  did  one.  From  the  first 
time  I  ever  cast  my  eyes  on  any  thing  of  Burke's  (which  was  an 
extract  from  his  Letter  to  a  Noble  Lord  in  a  three-times-a-week 
paper,  The  St.  James's  Chronicle,  in  1796,)  I  said  to  myself, 
"  This  is  true  eloquence :  this  is  a  man  pouring  out  nis  mind  on 
paper."  All  other  style  seemed  to  me  pedantic  and  impertinent. 
Dr.  Johnson's  was  walking  on  stilts  ;  and  even  Junius's  (who  was 
at  that  time  a  favourite  with  me,)  v/ith  all  his  terseness,  shrunk 
up  into  little  antithetic  points  and  well-trimmed  sentences.     But 


ON  READING  OLD  BOOKS.  3» 

Burke's  style  was  forked  and  playful  as  the  lightning,  crested 
like  the  serpent.  He  delivered  plain  things  on  a  plain  ground  ; 
but  when  he  rose,  there  was  no  end  of  his  flights  and  circumgy- 
rations— and  in  this  very  Letter,  "  he,  like  an  eagle  in  a  dove- 
cot, fluttered  his  Volscians"  (the  Duke  of  Bedford  and  the  Earl 
of  Lauderdale*)  "in  Corioli."  I  did  not  care  for  his  doctrines. 
I  was  then,  and  am  still,  proof  against  their  contagion  ;  but  I  ad- 
mired the  author,  and  was  considered  as  not  a  very  staunch  par- 
tisan of  the  opposite  side,  though  I  thought  myself  that  an  abstract 
proposition  was  one  thing — a  masterly  transition,  a  brilliant  meta- 
phor, another.  I  conceived  too  that  he  might  be  wrong  in  his 
main  argument,  and  yet  deliver  fifty  truths  in  arriving  at  a  false 
conclusion.  I  remember  Coleridge  assuring  me,  as  a  poetical 
and  political  set-off"  to  my  sceptical  admiration,  that  Wordsworth 
had  written  an  Essay  on  Marriage,  which,  for  manly  thought  and 
nervous  expression,  he  deemed  incomparably  superior.  As  I  had 
not,  at  that  time,  seen  any  specimens  of  Mr.  Wordsworth's  prose 
style,  I  could  not  venture  my  doubts  on  the  subject.  If  there  are 
greater  prose-writers  than  Burke,  they  either  lie  out  of  my  course 
of  study,  or  are  beyond  my  sphere  of  comprehension.  I  am  too  old 
to  be  a  convert  to  a  new  mythology  of  genius.  The  niches  are 
occupied,  the  tables  are  full.  If  such  is  still  my  admiration  of  this 
man's  misapplied  powers,  what  must  it  have  been  at  a  time  when  I 
myself  was  in  vain  tryirig,  year  after  year,  to  write  a  single  Essay, 
nay,  a  single  page  or  sentence  ;  when  I  regarded  the  wonders  of 
his  pen  with  the  longing  eyes  of  one  who  was  dumb  and  a  change- 
ling ;  and  when,  to  be  able  to  convey  the  slightest  conception  of 
my  meaning  to  others  in  words,  was  the  height  of  an  almost  hope- 
less ambition  !  But  I  never  measured  others'  excellences  by  my 
own  defects :  though  a  sense  of  my  own  incapacity,  and  of  the 
steep,  impassable  ascent  from  me  to  them  made  me  regard  them 
with  greater  awe  and  fondness.  I  have  thus  run  through  most 
of  my  early  studies  and  favourite  authors,  some  of  whom  I  have 
since  criticised  more  at  large.  Whether  those  observations  will 
survive  me,  I  neither  know  nor  do  I  much  care  :  but  to  the  works 
themselves,  "  worthy  of  all  acceptation,"  and  to  the  feelings  they 

*  He  is  there  called  "  Citizen  Lauderdale."     Is  this  the  present  Eari  ? 


26  .  TABLE  TALK. 


have  always  excited  in  me  since  I  could  distinguish  a  meaning  in 
language,  nothing  shall  ever  prevent  me  from  looking  back  with 
gratitude  and  triumph.  To  have  lived  in  the  cultivation  of  an 
intimacy  with  such  works,  and  to  have  familiarly  relished  such 
names,  is  not  to  have  lived  quite  in  vain. 

There  are  other  authors  whom  I  have  never  read,  and  yet 
whom  I  have  frequently  had  a  great  desire  to  read,  from  some 
circumstance  relating  to  them.  Among  these  is  Lord  Claren- 
don's History  of  the  Grand  Rebellion,  after  which  I  have  a  hank- 
ering, from  hearing  it  spoken  of  by  good  judges — from  my  in- 
terest in  the  events,  and  from  having  seen  fine  portraits  of  most 
of  them.  I  like  to  read  a  well-penned  character,  and  Clarendon 
is  said  to  have  been  a  master  in  this  way.  I  should  like  to  read 
Froissart's  Chronicles,  Hollinshed  and  Stowe,  and  Fuller's  Wor- 
thies. I  intend,  whenever  I  can,  to  read  Beaumont  and  Fletcher 
all  through.  There  are  fifty-two  of  their  plays  ;  and  I  have  only 
read  a  dozen  or  fourteen  of  them.  A  Wife  for  a  Month,  and 
Thierry  and  Theodoret,  are,  I  am  told,  delicious,  and  I  can  believe 
it.  I  should  like  to  read  the  speeches  in  Thucydides,  and  Guic- 
ciardini's  His.ory  of  Florence,  and  Don  Quixote  in  the  original. 
I  have  often  thought  of  reading  the  Loves  of  Persiles  and  Sigis- 
munda,  and  the  Galatea  of  the  same  author.  But  I  somehow  re- 
serve them  like  "  another  Yarrow."  I  should  also  like  to  read 
the  last  new  novel  (if  I  could  be  sure  it  was  so)  of  the  Author  of 
Waverley  : — no  one  would  be  more  glad  than  I  to  find  it  the  best 


ON  PERSONAL  CHARACTER.  tfl 


ESSAY  XIX. 

On  Personal  Character. 

"  Men   palliate  ar;d  conceal  their  original  qualities,  but  do  not  extirpate 
them." — Montaigne's  Essays. 

No  one  ever  changes  his  character  from  the  time  he  is  two  years 
old  ;  nay,  I  might  say,  from  the  time  he  is  two  hours  old.  We 
may,  with  instruction  and  opportunity,  mend  our  manners,  or  else 
alter  them  for  the  worse,  "  as  the  flesh  and  fortune  shall  serve  j" 
but  the  character,  the  internal,  original  bias  remains  always  the 
same,  true  to  itself  to  the  very  last — 

"  And  feels  the  ruling  passion  strong  in  death." 

A  very  grave  and  dispassionate  philosopher  (the  late  celebrated 
chemist,  Mr.  Nicholson)  was  so  impressed  with  the  conviction  of 
the  instantaneous  commencement  and  development  of  the  cha- 
racter with  the  birth,  that  he  published  a  long  and  amusing  article 
in  the  Monthly  Magazine,  giving  a  detailed  account  of  the  pro- 
gress, history,  education,  and  tempers  of  two  twins,  up  to  the  pe- 
riod of  their  being  eleven  years  old.  This  is,  perhaps,  consider- 
ing the  matter  too  curiously,  and  would  amount  to  a  species  of 
horoscopy,  if  we  were  to  build  on  such  premature  indications ; 
but  the  germ  no  doubt  is  there,  hough  we  must  wait  a  little 
longer  to  see  what  form  it  taKes.  We  need  not  in  general  wait 
long.  The  Devil  soon  betrays  the  cloven  foot ;  or  a  milder  and 
better  spirit  appears  in  its  stead.  A  temper  sullen  or  active,  shy 
or  bold,  grave  or  lively,  selfish  or  romantic,  (to  say  nothing  of 
quickness  or  dulness  of  apprehension,)  is  manifest  very  early ; 
and  imperceptibly,  but  irresistibly  moulds  our  inclinations,  ha- 
bits, and  pursuits  through  life.  The  greater  or  less  degree  of 
animal  spirits,— -of  nervous  irritability, — the  complexion   of  the 

3 — PART   II. 


26  TABLE  TALK. 


blood, — the  proportion  of  "hot,  cold,  moist,  and  dry,  four  cham- 
pions fierce  that  strive  for  mastery," — the  Saturnine  or  the  Mer- 
curial,— the  disposition  to  be  affected  by  objects  near  or  at  a 
distance,  or  not  at  all, — to  be  struck  with  novelty,  or  to  brood  over 
deep-rooted  impressions, — to  indulge  in  laughter  or  in  tears,  the 
leaven  of  passion  or  of  prudence  that  tempers  this  frail  clay,  is 
born  with  us,  and  never  quits  us.  "  It  is  not  in  our  stars,"  in 
planetary  influence,  but  neither  is  it  owing  "  to  ourselves,  that 
we  are  thus  or  thus."  The  accession  of  knowledge,  the  pres- 
sure of  circumstances,  favourable  or  unfavourable,  does  little 
more  than  minister  occasion  to  the  first  predisposing  bias — than 
assist,  like  the  dews  of  heaven,  or  retard,  like  the  nipping  north, 
the  growth  of  the  seed  originally  sown  in  our  constitutions — than 
give  a  more  or  less  decided  expression  to  that  personal  character, 
the  outlines  of  which  nothing  can  alter.  What  I  mean  is,  that 
Blifil  and  Tom  Jones,  for  instance,  by  changing  places,  would 
never  have  changed  characters.  The  one  might,  from  circum- 
stances and  from  the  notions  instilled  into  him,  have  become  a 
little  less  selfish,  and  the  other  a  little  less  extravagant ;  but  with 
a  trifling  allowance  of  this  sort,  taking  the  proposition  cum  grano 
salts,  they  would  have  been  just  where  they  set  out.  Blifil 
would  have  been  Blifil  still,  and  Jones  what  nature  inte'nded  him 
to  be.  I  have  made  use  of  this  example  without  any  apology  for 
its  being  a  fictitious  one,  because  I  think  good  novels  are  the 
most  authentic  as  well  as  most  accessible  repositories  of  the  na . 
tural  history  and  philosophy  of  the  species. 

I  shall  not  borrow  assistance  or  illustration  from  the  organic 
system  of  Doctors  Gall  and  Spurzheim,  which  reduces  this 
question  to  a  small  compass  and  very  distinct  limits,  because  ] 
do  not  understand  or  believe  in  it ;  but  I  think  those  who  pul 
faith  in  physiognomy  at  all,  or  imagine  that  the  mind  is  stamped 
upon  the  countenance,  must  believe  that  there  is  such  a  thing  as 
an  essential  difference  of  character  in  different  individuals.  We 
do  not  change  our  features  with  our  situations;  neither  6j  w» 
change  the  capacities  or  inclinations  which  lurk  beneath  them. 
A  broad  face  does  not  become  an  oval  nor  a  pug  nose  a  Roman 
one,  with  the  acquisition  of  an  office,  or  the  addition  of  a  title. 
So  neither  is  the  pert,  hard,  unfeeling  outline  of  character  turned 


ON  PERSONAL  CHARACTER.  29 

from  selfishness  and  cunning  to  openness  and  generosity,  by  any 
softening  of  circumstances.  If  the  face  puts  on  an  habitual 
smile  in  the  sunshine  of  fortune,  or  if  it  suddenly  lowers  in  the 
storms  of  adversity,  do  not  trust  too  implicitly  to.  appearances ; 
the  man  is  the  same  at  bottom.  The  designing  knave  may 
sometimes  wear  a  vizor,  or  "  to  beguile  the  time,  look  like  the 
time;"  but  watch  him  narrowly,  and  you  will  detect  him  behind 
his  mask  I  We  recognize,  after  a  length  of  years,  the  same 
well-known  face  that  we  were  formerly  acquainted  with,  changed 
by  time,  but  the  same  in  itself;  and  can  trace  the  features  of 
the  boy  in  the  full-grown  man.  Can  we  doubt  that  the  character 
and  thoughts  have  remained  as  much  the  same  all  that  time ; 
have  borne  the  same  image  and  superscription ;  have  grown 
with  the  growth,  and  strengthened  with  the  strength  ?  In  this 
sense,  and  in  Mr.  Wordsworth's  phrase,  "  the  child's  the  father 
of  the  man"  surely  enough.  The  same  tendencies  may  not  al- 
ways be  equally  visible,  but  they  are  still  in  existence,  and  b:eak 
out,  whenever  they  dare  and  can,  the  more  for  being  checked. 
Again,  we  often  distinctly  notice  the  same  features,  the  same 
bodily  peculiarities,  the  same  look  and  gestures  in  different  per- 
sons of  the  same  family  ;  and  find  this  resemblance  extending 
to  collateral  branches  and  through  several  generations,  showing 
how  strongly  nature  must  have  been  warped  and  biassed  in  that 
particular  direction  at  first.  This  pre-determination  in  the  blood 
has  its  caprices  too,  and  wayward  as  well  as  obstinate  fits.  The 
family-likeness  sometimes  skips  over  the  next  of  kin  or  the  near- 
est  branch,  and  re-appears  in  all  its  singularity  in  a  second  or 
third  cousin,  or  passes  over  the  son  to  the  grand-child.  Where 
the  pictures  of  the  heirs  and  successors  to  a  title  or  estate  have 
been  preserved  for  any  length  of  time  in  Gothic  halls  and  old 
fashioned  mansions,  the  prevailing  outline  and  character  does 
not  wear  out,  but  may  be  traced  through  its  numerous  inflections 
and  descents  for  centuries,  like  the  winding  of  a  river  through 
an  expanse  of  country.  The  ancestor  of  many  a  noble  house 
nas  sat  for  the  portraits  of  his  youthful  descendants ;  and  still 
the  soul  of  "  Fairfax  and  the  starry  Vere,"  consecrated  in  Mar- 
vel's verse,  may  be  seen  mantling  in  the  suffused  features  of 
some  young  court-beauty  of  the   present  day.     The  portrait  of 

10* 


80  TABLE  TALK. 


Judge  Jeffries,  which  was  exhibited  lately  in  the  Gallery  in  Pall 
Mall — young,  handsome,  spirited,  good-humoured,  and  totally 
unlike,  at  first  view,  what  you  would  expect  from  the  character, 
— was  an  exact  likeness  of  two  young  men  whom  I  knew  some 
years  ago,  the  living  representatives  of  that  family.  It  is  curious 
that,  consistently  enough  with  the  delineation  in  the  portrait,  old 
Evelyn  should  have  recorded  in  his  Memoirs,  that  "  he  saw  the 
Chief-Justice  Jeffries  in  a  large  company  the  night  before,  and 
that  he  thought  he  laughed,  drank,  and  danced  too  much  for  a 
man  who  had  that  day  condemned  Algernon  Sidney  to  the  block." 
It  is  not  always  possible  to  foresee  the  tiger's  spring,  till  we  are 
in  his  grasp ;  the  fawning,  cruel  eye  dooms  its  prey,  while  it 
glitters  !  Features  alone  do  not  run  in  the  blood  ;  vices  and  vir- 
tues, genius  and  folly  are  transmitted  through  the  same  sure,  but 
unseen  channel.  There  is  an  involuntary,  unaccountable  family- 
character,  as  well  as  family-face ;  and  we  see  it  manifesting 
itself  in  the  same  way,  with  unbroken  continuity,  or  by  fits  and 
starts.  There  shall  be  a  regular  breed  of  misers,  of  incorrigi- 
ble old  hunkses  in  a  family,  time  out  of  mind ;  or  the  shame  of 
the  thing,  and  the  hardships  and  restraint  imposed  upon  him 
while  young,  shall  urge  some  desperate  spendthrift  to  wipe  out 
the  reproach  upon  his  name  by  a  course  of  extravagance  and 
debauchery ;  and  his  immediate  successors  shall  make  his  ex- 
ample an  excuse  for  relapsing  into  the  old  jog-trot  incurable  in- 
firmity, the  grasping  and  pinching  disease  of  the  family  again.* 
A  person  may  be  indebted  for  a  nose  or  an  eye,  for  a  graceful 
carriage  or  a  voluble  discourse,  to  a  great-aunt  or  uncle,  whose 
existence  he  has  scarcely  heard  of;  and  distant  relations  are 
surprised,  on  some  casual  introduction,  to  find  each  other  an  alter 
idem.  Country  cousins,  who  meet  after  they  are  grown  up  for 
the  first  time  in  London,  often  start  at  the  likeness, — it  is  like 
looking  at  themselves  in  the  glass — nay,  they  shall  see,  almost 

*  "  I  know  at  this  time  a  person  of  vast  estate,  who  is  the  immediate  de- 
scendant of  a  fine  gentleman,  but  the  great-grandson  of  a  broker,  in  whom  his 
ancestor  is  now  revived.  He  is  a  very  honest  gentleman  in  his  principles,  but 
cannot  for  his  blood  talk  fairly  :  he  is  heartily  sorry  for  it ;  but  he  cheats  by 
constitution,  and  over-reaches  by  instinct." — See  this  subject  delightfully 
treated  in  the  75th  Number  of  the  Tattler,  in  an  account  of  Mr.  BirkeretafTs 
pedigree,  on  occasion  of  his  sister's  marriage. 


ON  PERSONAL  CHARACTER. 


before  they  exchange  a  word,  their  own  thoughts  (as  it  were) 
staring  them  in  the  face,  the  same  ideas,  feelings,  opinions,  pas- 
sions, prejudices,  likings  and  antipathies;  the  same  turn  of  mind 
and  sentiment,  the  same  foibles,  peculiarities,  faults,  follies,  mis- 
fortunes, consolations,  the  same  self,  the  same  every  thing  !  And 
farther,  this  coincidence  shall  take  place  and  be  most  remark* 
able,  where  not  only  no  intercourse  has  previously  been  kept  up, 
not  even  by  letter  or  by  common  friends,  but  where  the  different 
branches  of  a  family  have  been  estranged  for  long  years,  and 
where  the  younger  part  in  each  have  been  brought  up  in  totally 
different  situations,  with  different  studies,  pursuits,  expectations 
and  opportunities.  To  assure  me  that  this  is  owing  to  circum- 
stances, is  to  assure  me  of  a  gratuitous  absurdity,  which  you 
cannot  know,  and  which  I  shall  not  believe.  It  is  owing,  not  to 
circumstances,  but  to  the  force  of  kind,  to  the  stuff  of  which  our 
blood  and  humours  are  compounded  being  the  same.  Why  should 
I  and  an  old  hair-brained  uncle  of  mine  fasten  upon  the  same 
picture  in  a  Collection,  and  talk  of  it  for  years  after,  though  one 
of  no  particular  "  mark  or  likelihood"  in  itself,  but  for  some- 
thing congenial  in  the  look  to  our  own  humour  and  way  of  seeing 

nature  ?     Why  should  my  cousin  L and  I  fix  upon  the  same 

book,  Tristram  Shandy — without  comparing  notes,  have  it 
"  doubled  down  and  dog-eared"  in  the  same  places,  and  live 
upon  it  as  a  sort  of  food  that  assimilated  with  our  natural  dispo- 
sitions ? — "  Instinct,  Hal,  instinct !"  They  are  fools  who  saj 
otherwise,  and  have  never  studied  nature  or  mankind,  but  in 
books  and  systems  of  philosophy.  But,  indeed,  the  colour  of 
our  lives  is  woven  into  the  fatal  thread  at  our  births :  our  origi- 
nal sins  and  our  redeeming  graces  are  infused  into  us ;  nor  is 
the  bond,  that  confirms  our  destiny,  ever  cancelled. 

Beneath  the  hills,  amid  the  flowery  groves, 
The  generations  are  prepared  ;  the  pangs, 
The  internal  pangs,  are  ready;  the  dread  strife 
Of  poor  humanity's  afflicted  will 
Struggling  in  vain  with  ruthless  destiny. 

The  "  winged  wounds"  that  rankle  in  our  breasts  to  our  latest 
day,  were  planted  there  long  since,  ticketed  and  labelled  on  the 
outside  in  small  but  indelible  characters,  written   in  our  blood, 


32  TABLE  TALK. 


"  like  that  ensanguined  flower  inscribed  with  woe :"  we  are  in  the 
toils  from  the  very  first,  hemmed  in  by  the  hunters ;  and  these  are 
our  own  passions,  bred  of  our  brain  and  humours,  and  that  never 
leave  us,  but  consume  and  gnaw  the  heart  in  our  short  life-time, 
as  worms  wait  for  us  in  the  grave  ! 

Critics  and  authors,  who  congregate  in  large  cities,  and  see 
nothing  of  the  world  but  a  sort  of  phantasmagoria,  to  whom  the 
numberless  characters  they  meet  in  the  course  of  a  few  hours  are 
fugitive  "  as  the  flies  of  a  summer."  evanescent  as  the  figures  in 
a  camera  obscura,  may  talk  very  learnedly,  and  attribute  the 
motions  of  the  puppets  to  circumstances  of  which  they  are  con- 
fessedly in  total  ignorance.  They  see  character  only  in  the  bust, 
and  have  not  room  (for  the  crowd)  to  study  it  as  a  whole-length, 
that  is,  as  it  exists  in  reality.  But  those  who  trace  things  to  their 
source,  and  proceed  from  individuals  to  generals,  know  better. 
School-boys,  for  example,  who  are  early  let  into  the  secret,  and 
see  the  seeds  growing,  are  not  only  sound  judges,  but  true  prophets 
of  character ;  so  that  the  nick-names  they  give  their  play-fellows 
usually  stick  by  them  ever  after.  The  gossips  in  country-towns, 
also,  who  study  human  nature,  not  merely  in  the  history  of  the 
individual,  but  in  the  genealogy  of  the  race,  know  the  compara- 
tive anatomy  of  the  minds  of  a  whole  neighbourhood  to  a  tittle, 
where  to  look  for  marks  and  defects, — explain  a  vulgarity  by  a 
cross  in  the  breed,  or  a  foppish  air  in  a  young  tradesman  by  his 
grandmother's  marriage  with  a  dancing-master, — and  are  the  only 
practical  conjurors  and  expert  decypherers  of  the  determinate 
lines  of  true  and  supposititious  character. 

The  character  of  women  (I  should  think  it  will  at  this  time  of 
day  be  granted)  differs  essentially  from  that  of  men,  not  less  so  than 
their  shape  or  the  texture  of  their  skin.  It  has  been  said  indeed, 
"  most  women  have  no  character  at  all," — and  on  the  other  hand, 
the  fair  and  eloquent  authoress  of  the  Rights  of  Women  was  for 
establishing  the  masculine  pretensions  and  privileges  of  her  sex 
on  a  perfect  equality  with  ours.  I  shall  leave  Pope  and  Mary 
Wolstonecroft  to  settle  that  point  between  them.  I  should  laugh 
at  any  one  who  told  me  that  the  European,  the  Asiatic,  ar\d  the 
African  character  were  the  same.  I  no  more  believe  it  than  I  do 
that  black  is  the  same  colour  as  white,  or  that  a  straight  line  is  a 


ON  PERSONAL  CHARACTER.  33 

crooked  one.  We  see  in  whole  nations  and  large  classes  tne 
physiognomies,  and  I  should  suppose  ("  not  to  speak  it  profanely") 
the  general  characters  of  different  animals  with  which  we  are 
acquainted,  as  of  the  fox,  the  wolf,  the  hog,  the  goat,  the  dog,  the 
monkey  ;  and  1  suspect  this  analogy,  whether  perceived  or  not,  has 
as  prevailing  an  influence  on  their  habits  and  actions,  as  any  theory 
of  moral  sentiments  taught  in  the  schools.  Rules  and  precautions 
may,  no  doubt,  be  applied  to  counteract  the  excesses  and  overt 
demonstrations  of  any  such  characteristic  infirmity  ;  but  still  the 
disease  will  be  in  the  mind,  an  impediment,  not  a  help  to  virtue. 
An  exception  is  usually  taken  to  all  national  or  general  reflec- 
tions, as  unjust  and  illiberal,  because  they  cannot  be  true  of  every 
individual.  It  is  not  meant  that  they  are ;  and  besides,  the  same 
captious  objection  is  not  made  to  the  handsome  things  that  are  said 
of  whole  bodies  and  classes  of  men.  A  lofty  panegyric,  a  boasted 
virtue  will  fit  the  inhabitants  of  an  entire  district  to  a  hair ;  the 
want  of  strict  universality,  of  philosophical  and  abstract  truth  is 
no  difficulty  here  ;  but  if  you  hint  at  an  obvious  vice  or  defect, 
this  is  instantly  construed  into  a  most  unfair  and  partial  view  of 
the  case,  and  each  defaulter  throws  the  imputation  from  himself 
and  his  country  with  scorn.  Thus  you  may  praise  the  generosity 
of  the  English,  the  prudence  of  the  Scotch,  the  hospitality  of  the 
Irish,  as  long  as  you  please,  and  not  a  syllable  Is  whispered 
against  these  sweeping  expressions  of  admiration  ;  but  reverse 
the  picture,  hold  up  to  censure,  or  only  glance  at  the  unfavourable 
side  of  each  character,  (and  they  themselves  admit  that  they  have 
a  distinguishing  and  generic  character  as  a  people,)  and  you  are 
assailed  by  the  most  violent  clamours  and  a  confused  Babel  of 
noises,  as  a  disseminator  of  unfounded  prejudices,  or  a  libeller  of 
human  nature.  I  am  sure  there  is  nothing  reasonable  in  this. — 
Harsh  and  disagreeable  qualities  wear  out  in  nations,  as  in  indi- 
viduals, from  time  and  intercourse  with  the  world,  but  it  is  at  the 
expense  of  their  intrinsic  excellences.  The  vices  of  softness  and 
effeminacy  sink  deeper  with  age,  like  thorns  in  the  flesh.  Single 
acts  or  events  often  determine  the  fate  of  mortals,  yet  may  have 
nothing  to  do  with  their  general  deserts  or  failings.  He  who  is 
c-aii  to  be  cured  of  any  glaring  infirmity  may  be  suspected  never 
to  have  had  it ;  and  lastly,  it  may  be  laid  down  as  a  genpra)  rule, 


3*  TABLE  TALK. 


that  mankind  improve,  by  means  of  luxury  and  civilization,  in 
social  manneis,  and  become  more  depraved  in  what  relates  to 
personal  habits  and  character.  There  are  few  nations,  as  well 
as  few  men  (with  the  exception  of  tyrants)  that  are  cruel  and 
voluptuous,  immersed  in  pleasure,  and  bent  on  inflicting  pain  on 
others,  at  the  same  time.  Ferociousness  is  the  characteristic  of 
barbarous  ages,  licentiousness  of  more  refined  periods.* 

I  shall  not  undertake  to  decide  exactly  how  far  the  original 
character  may  be  modified  by  the  general  progress  of  society, 
or  by  particular  circumstances  happening  to  the  individual;  but 
I  think  the  alteration  (be  it  what  it  may)  is  more  apparent  than 
real,  more  in  conduct  than  in  feeling.  1  will  not  deny,  that  an 
extreme  and  violent  difference  of  circumstances  (as  that  between 
the  savage  and  civilized  state)  will  supersede  the  common  dis- 
tinctions of  character,  and  prevent  certain  dispositions  and  sen- 
timents from  ever  developing  themselves.  Yet  with  reference  to 
this,  I  would  observe,  in  the  first  place,  that  in  the  most  opposite 
ranks  and  conditions  of  life,  we  find  qualities  displaying  them- 
selves, which  we  should  have  least  expected, — grace  in  a  cottage, 
humanity  in  a  bandit,  sincerity  in  courts ;  and  secondly,  in  ordi- 
nary cases,  and  in  the  mixed  mass  of  human  affairs,  the  mind 
contrives  to  lay  hold  of  those  circumstances  and  motives  which 
suit  its  own  bias  and  confirm  its  natural  disposition,  whatever  it 
may  be,  gentle  or  rough,  vulgar  or  refined,  spirited  or  cowardly, 
open-hearted  or  cunning.  The  will  is  not  blindly  impelled  by 
outward  accidents,  but  selects  the  impressions  by  which  it  chooses 
to  be  governed,  with  great  dexterity  and  perseverance.  Or  the 
machine  may  be  at  the  disposal  of  fortune :  the  man  is  still  his 
own  master.  The  soul,  under  the  pressure  of  circumstances, 
does  not  lose  its  original  spring ;  but,  as  soon  as  the  pressure  is 
removed,  recoils  with  double  violence  to  its  first  position.  That 
which  any  one  has  been  long  learning  unwillingly,  he  unlearns 
with  proportionable  eagerness  and  haste.  Kings  have  been  said 
to  be  incorrigible  to  experience.     The  maxim  might  be  extended, 

*  Fideliter  didicisse  ingenuas  artes. 
Emollit  mores,  nee  sinit  esse  feros. 

The  same  maxim  does  not  establish  the  purity  of  morals  that  infers  thefr 
mildness. 


ON  PERSONAL  CHARACTER.  S6 


without  injury,  to  the  benefit  of  their  subjects,  for  every  man  is  a 
king  (with  all  the  pride  and  obstinacy  of  one)  in  his  own  little 
world.  It  is  only  lucky  that  the  rest  of  the  species  are  not 
answerable  for  his  caprices !  We  laugh  at  the  warnings  and  ad- 
vice of  others  ;  we  resent  the  lessons  of  adversity,  and  lose  no 
time  in  letting  it  appear  that  we  have  escaped  from  its  importu- 
nate hold.  I  do  not  think,  with  every  assistance  from  reason  and 
circumstances,  that  the  slothful  ever  becomes  active,  the  coward 
brave,  the  headstrong  prudent,  the  fickle  steady,  the  mean  gen- 
erous, the  coarse  delicate,  the  ill-tempered  amiable,  or  the  knave 
honest ;  but  that  the  restraint  of  necessity  and  appearances  once 
taken  away,  they  would  relapse  into  their  former  and  real  char- 
acter again  : — Cucullus  n<m  facit  monachum.  Manners,  situa- 
tion, example,  fashion,  have  a  prodigious  influence  on  exterior  de- 
portment. But  do  they  penetrate  much  deeper  ?  The  thief  will 
not  steal  by  day ;  but  his  having  this  command  over  himself 
does  not  do  away  his  character  or  calling.  The  priest  cannot 
indulge  in  certain  irregularities ;  but  unless  his  pulse  beats  tem- 
perately from  the  first,  he  will  only  be  playing  a  part  through 
life.  Again,  the  soldier  cannot  shrink  from  his  duty  in  a  das- 
tardly manner ;  but  if  he  has  not  naturally  steady  nerves  and 
strong  resolution,  except  in  the  field  of  battle,  he  may  be  fearful 
as  a  woman,  though  covered  with  scars  and  honour.  The  judge 
must  be  disinterested  and  above  suspicion  ;  yet  should  he  have 
from  nature  an  itching  palm,  an  eye  servile  and  greedy  of  office, 
he  will  somehow  contrive  to  indemnify  his  private  conscience  out 
of  his  public  principle,  and  husband  a  reputation  for  legal  inte- 
grity, as  a  stake  to  play  the  game  of  political  profligacy  with 
more  advantage  !  There  is  often  a  contradiction  in  character, 
which  is  composed  of  various  and  unequal  parts ;  and  hence 
there  will  arise  an  appearance  of  fickleness  and  inconsistency. 
.  A  man  may  be  sluggish  by  the  father's  side,  and  of  a  restless 
and  uneasy  temper  by  the  mother's ;  and  he  may  favour  either 
of  these  inherent  dispositions  according  to  circumstances.  But 
he  will  not  have  changed  his  character,  any  more  than  a  man 
who  sometimes  lives  in  one  apartment  of  a  house  and  then  takes 
possession  of  another,  according  to  whim  or  convenience,  changes 
his  habitation.     The  simply  phlegmatic  never  turns  to  the  truly 


36  TABLE  TALK. 


"  fiery  quality."  So,  the  really  gay  or  trifling  never  become 
thoughtful  and  serious.  The  light-hearted  wretch  takes  nothing 
to  heart.  He,  on  whom  (from  natural  carelessness  of  disposi- 
tion) "the  shot  of  accident  and  dart  of  chance"  fall  like  drops 
of  oil  on  water,  so  that  he  brushes  them  aside  with  heedless  hand 
and  smiling  face,  will  never  be  roused  from  his  volatile  indifFer 
ence  to  meet  inevitable  calamities.  He  may  try  to  laugh  them 
off,  but  will  not  put  himself  to  any  inconvenience  to  prevent 
them.  1  know  a  man  that,  if  a  tiger  were  to  jump  into  his 
room,  would  only  play  off  some  joke,  some  "  quip,  or  crank,  or 
wanton  wile"  upon  him.  Mortifications  and  disappointments 
may  break  such  a  person's  heart ;  but  they  will  be  the  death  of 
him  ere  they  will  make  him  provident  of  the  future,  or  willing 
lo  forego  one  idle  gratification  of  the  passing  moment  for  any 
consideration  whatever.  The  dilatory  man  never  becomes  punc- 
tual. Resolution  is  of  no  avail ;  for  the  very  essence  of  the 
character  consists  in  this,  that  the  present  impression  is  of  more 
efficacy  than  any  previous  resolution.  I  have  heard  it  said  of  a 
celebrated  writer,  that  if  he  had  to  get  a  reprieve  from  the  gal- 
lows for  himself  or  a  friend  (with  leave  be  it  spoken,)  and  was  to 
be  at  a  certain  place  at  a  given  time  for  this  purpose,  he  would 
be  a  quarter  of  an  hour  behind-hand.  What  is  to  be  done  ir/ 
this  case  ?  Can  you  talk  or  argue  a  man  out  of  his  humour  ? 
You  might  as  well  attempt  to  talk  or  argue  him  out  of  a  lethargv 
or  a  fever.  The  disease  is  in  the  blood  :  you  may  see  it  (if  you 
are  a  curious  observer)  meandering  in  his  veins,  and  reposing  on 
his  eye-lids  !  Some  of  our  foibles  are  laid  in  the  constitution  of 
our  bodies  ;  others  in  the  structure  of  our  minds,  and  both  are 
irremediable.  The  vain  man,  who  is  full  of  himself,  is  never 
cured  of  his  vanity,  but  looks  for  admiration  to  the  last,  with  a 
restless,  suppliant  eye,  in  the  midst  of  contumely  and  contempt ; 
the  modest  man  never  grows  vain  from  flattery,  or  unexpected 
applause,  for  he  sees  himself  in  the  diminished  scale  of  other 
things.  He  will  not  "  have  his  nothings  monstered."  He  knows 
now  much  he  himself  wants,  how  much  others  have ;  and  till 
you  can  alter  this  conviction  in  him,  or  make  him  drunk  by  in- 
fusing &ome  new  poison,  some  celestial  ichor  into  his  veins,  you 
cannot  make  a  coxcomb  of  him.     He  is  too  well  aware  of  the 


ON  PERSONAL  CHARACTER.  ST 

truth  of  what  has  been  said,  that  "  the  wisest  amongst  us  is  a 
fool  in  some  things,  as  the  lowest  amongst  men  has  some  just  no- 
tions, and  therein  is  as  wise  as  Socrates ;  so  that  every  man  re- 
sembles a  statue  made  to  stand  against  a  wall,  or  in  a  niche ;  on 
one  side  it  is  a  Plato,  an  Apollo,  a  Demosthenes ;  on  the  other,  it 
is  a  rough,  unformed  piece  of  stone."*  Some  persons  of  my  ac- 
quaintance, who  think  themselves  teres  et  rotundus,  and  armed  at 
all  points  with  perfections,  would  not  be  much  inclined  to  give  in 
to  this  sentiment,  the  modesty  of  which  is  only  equalled  by  its 
sense  and  ingenuity.  The  man  of  sanguine  temperament  is  sel- 
dom weaned  from  his  castles  in  the  air ;  nor  can  you,  by  virtue 
of  any  theory,  convert  the  cold,  careful  calculator  into  a  wild  en- 
thusiast. A  self- tormentor  is  never  satisfied,  come  what  will. 
He  always  apprehends  the  worst,  and  is  indefatigable  in  conjur- 
ing up  the  apparition  of  danger.  He  is  uneasy  at  his  own  good 
fortune,  as  it  takes  from  his  favourite  topic  of  repining  and  com- 
plaint. Let  him  succeed  to  his  heart's  content  in  all  that  is 
reasonable  or  important,  yet  if  there  is  any  one  thing  (and  that 
he  is  sure  to  find  out)  in  which  he  does  not'  get  on,  this  embitters 
all  the  rest.  I  know  an  instance.  Perhaps  it  is  myself.  Again, 
a  surly  man,  in  spite  of  warning,  neglects  his  own  interest,  and 
will  do  so,  because  he  has  more  pleasure  in  disobliging  you  than 
in  serving  himself.  "  A  friendly  man  will  show  himself  friendly," 
to  the  last ;  for  those  who  are  said  to  have  been  spoiled  by  pros- 
perity were  never  really  good  for  any  thing.  A  good-natured 
man  never  loses  his  native  happiness  of  disposition :  good  temper 
is  an  estate  for  life  ;  and  a  man  born  with  common  sense  rarely 
turns  out  a  very  egregious  fool.  It  is  more  common  to  see  a 
fool  become  wise,  that  is,  set  up  for  wisdom,  and  be  taken  at  his 
word  by  fools.  We  frequently  judge  of  a  man's  intellectual 
pretensions  by  the  number  of  books  he  writes ;  of  his  eloquence 
by  the  number  of  speeches  he  makes  ;  of  his  capacity  for  busi- 
ness, by  the  number  of  offices  he  holds.  These  are  not  true 
tests.  Many  a  celebrated  author  is  a  known  blockhead  (between 
friends)  ;  and  many  a  minister  of  state,  whose  gravity  and  self- 
importance  pass  with  the  world  for  depth  of  thought  and  weight 

*  Richardson's  Works,  On  the  Science  of  a  Connoisseur,  p.  212. 


38  TABLE  TALK. 


of  public  care,  is  a  laughing-stock  to  his  very  servants  and  de- 
pendants.* The  talents  of  some  men,  indeed,  which  might  not 
otherwise  have  had  a  field  to  display  themselves,  are  called  out 
by  extraordinary  situations,  and  rise  with  the  occasion  ;  but  for 
all  the  routine  and  mechanical  preparation,  the  pomp  and  parade 
'and  big  looks  of  great  statesmen,  or  what  is  called  merely  filling 
office,  a  very  shallow  capacity,  with  a  certain  immoveableness 
of  countenance,  is,  I  should  suppose,  sufficient,  from  what  I  have 
seen.  Such  political  machines  are  not  so  good  as  the  Mock-Duke 
in  the  Honey-Moon.  As  to  genius  and  capacity  for  the  works  of 
art  and  science,  all  that  a  man  really  excels  in,  is  his  own  and 
incommunicable ;  what  he  borrows  from  others  he  has  in  an  in- 
ferior degree,  and  it  is  never  what  his  fame  rests  on.  Sir  Joshua 
observes,  that  Raphael,  in  his  latter  pictures,  proved  that  he  had 
learnt  in  some  measure  the  colouring  of  Titian.  If  he  had 
learnt  it  quite,  the  merit  would  still  have  been  Titian's  ;  but  he 
did  not  learn  it,  and  never  would.  But  his  expression  (his  glory 
and  his  excellence)  was  what  he  had  within  himself,  first  and 
last ;  and  this  it  was  that  seated  him  on  the  pinnacle  of  fame,  a 
pre-eminence  that  no  artist,  without  an  equal  warrant  from  na 
tuie  and  genius,  will  ever  deprive  him  of.  With  respect  to  indi- 
cations of  early  genius  for  particular  things,  I  will  just  mention, 
tnat  I  myself  know  an  instance  of  a  little  boy  who  could  catch 
the  hardest  tunes,  when  between  two  and  three  years  old,  with- 
out any  assistance  but  hearing  them  played  on  a  hand-organ  in 
the  street;  and  who  followed  the  exquisite  pieces  of  Mozart,  played 
to  him  for  the  first  time,  so  as  to  fall  in  like  an  echo  at  the  close. 
Was  this  accident,  or  education,  or  natural  aptitude  ?  I  think  the 
last.     All  the  presumptions  are  for  it,  and  there  are  none  against  it. 

*  The  reputation  is  not  the  man.  Yet  all  true  reputation  begins  and  ends 
in  the  opinion  of  a  man's  intimate  friends.  He  is  what  they  think  him,  and 
in  the  last  result  will  be  thought  so  by  others.  Where  there  is  no  solid  merit 
tc  oear  the  pressure  of  personal  contact,  fame  is  but  a  vapour  raised  by  acci- 
dent or  prejudice,  and  will  soon  vanish  like  a  vapour  or  a  noisome  stench. 
But  he  who  appears  to  those  about  him  what  he  would  have  the  world  think 
him,  from  whom  every  one  that  approaches  him  in  whatever  circumstances 
brings  something  away  to  confirm  the  loud  rumour  of  the  popular  voice,  is 
alone  great  in  spite  of  fortune.  The  malice  of  friendship,  the  littleness  of 
curiosity,  is  as  severe  a  test  as  the  impartiality  and  enlarged  views  of  history. 


ON  PERSONAL    CHARACTER. 


In  fine,  do  we  not  see  how  hard  certain  early  impressions,  or 
prejudices  acquired  later,  are  to  overcome  ?  Do  we  not  say,  habit 
is  a  second  nature  ?  And  shall  we  not  allow  the  force  of  nature 
itself?  If  the  real  disposition  is  concealed  for  a  time  and  tam- 
pered with,  how  readily  it  breaks  out  with  the  first  excuse  or  op- 
portunity !  How  soon  does  the  drunkard  forget  his  resolution 
and  constrained  sobriety,  at  the  sight  of  the  foaming  tankard  and 
blazing  hearth !  Does  not  the  passion  for  gaming,  in  which 
there  had  been  an  involuntary  pause,  return  like  a  madness  all 
at  once  ?  It  would  be  needless  to  offer  instances  of  so  obvious  a 
truth.  But  if  this  superinduced  nature  is  not  to  be  got  the  better 
of  by  reason  or  prudence,  who  shall  pretend  to  set  aside  the  ori- 
ginal one  by  prescription  and  management  ?  Thus,  if  we  turn 
to  the  characters  of  women,  we  find  that  the  shrew,  the  jilt,  the 
coquette,  the  wanton,  the  intriguer,  the  liar,  continue  all  their 
lives  the  same.  Meet  them  after  the  lapse  of  a  quarter  or  half 
a  century,  and  they  are  still  infallibly  at  their  old  work.  No 
rebuke  from  experience,  no  lessons  of  misfortune  make  the  least 
impression  on  them.  On  they  go ;  and,  in  fact,  they  can  go  on 
in  no  other  way.  They  try  other  things,  but  it  will  not  do. 
They  are  like  fish  out  of  water,  except  in  the  element  of  their 
favourite  vices.  They  might  as  well  not  be,  as  cease  to  be  what 
they  are  by  nature  and  custom.  "  Can  the  Ethiopian  change  his 
skin,  or  the  leopard  his  spots  ?"  Neither  do  these  wretched 
persons  find  any  satisfaction  or  consciousness  of  their  power,  but 
in  being  a  plague  and  a  torment  to  themselves  and  every  one  else 
as  long  as  they  can.  A  good  sort  of  woman  is  a  character  more 
rare  than  any  of  these,  but  it  is  equally  durable.  Look  at  the 
head  of  Hogarth's  Idle  Apprentice  in  the  boat,  holding  up  his 
fingers  as  horns  at  Cuckold's  Point,  and  ask  what  penitentiary, 
what  prison-discipline  would  change  the  form  of  his  forehead 
"  villanous  low,"  or  the  conceptions  lurking  within  it  ?  Nothing 
— no  mother's  fearful  warnings, — nor  the  formidable  precautions 
of  that  wiser  and  more  loving  mother,  his  country  !  That  fellow 
is  still  to  be  met  with  somewhere  in  our  time.  Is  he  a  spy,  a 
jack-ketch,  or  an  underling  of  office  ?  In  truth,  almost  all  the 
characters  in  Hogarth  are  of  the  class  of  incorrigibles  ;  so  that  F 
often   wouder    what  has   become  of  some  of  them.     Have  the 


40  TABLE  TALK. 

worst  of  them  been  cleared  out,  like  the  breed  of  noxious  animals  1 
Or  have  they  been  swept  away,  like  locusts,  in  the  whirlwind 
of  the  French  Revolution  1  Or  has  Mr.  Bentham  put  them  into 
nis  Panopticon :  from  which  they  have  come  out,  so  that  nobody 
knows  them,  like  the  chimney-sweeper  boy  at  Sadler's  Wells, 
that  was  thrown  into  a  cauldron  and  came  out  a  little  dapper 
volunteer  ?  I  will  not  deny  that  some  of  them  may,  like  Chau- 
cer's characters,  have  been  modernized  a  little ;  but  I  think  I 
could  re-translate  a  few  of  them  into  their  mother-tongue,  the 
original  honest  black-letter.  We  may  refine,  we  may  disguise, 
we  may  equivocate,  we  may  compound  for  our  vices,  without 
getting  rid  of  them  ;  as  we  change  our  liquors,  but  do  not  leave 
oft'  drinking.  We  may,  in  this  respect,  look  forward  to  a  decent 
and  moderate,  rather  than  a  thorough  and  radical  reform.  Or 
(without  going  deep  into  the  political  question)  I  conceive  we 
may  improve  the  mechanism,  if  not  the  texture  of  society ;  that 
is,  we  may  improve  the  physical  circumstances  of  individuals 
and  their  general  relations  to  the  siate,  though  the  internal  cha- 
racter, like  the  grain  in  wood,  or  the  sap  in  trees,  that  still  rises, 
bend  them  how  you  will,  may  remain  nearly  the  same.  The 
clay  that  the  potter  uses  may  be  of  the  same  quality,  coarse  or 
fine  in  itself,  though  he  may  mould  it  into  vessels  of  very  differ- 
ent shape  or  beauty.  Who  shall  alter  the  stamina  of  national 
character  by  any  systematic  process  ?  Who  shall  make 
the  French  respectable,  or  the  English  amiable  ?  Yet  the  author 
of  the  year  2500*  has  done  it !  Suppose  public  spirit  to  be- 
come the  general  principle  of  action  in  the  community — how 
would  it  show  itself  ?  Would  it  not  then  become  the  fashion,  like 
loyalty,  and  have  its  apes  and  parrots,  like  loyalty  ?  The  man 
of  principle  would  no  longer  be  distinguished  from  the  crowd, 
the  servurn  pecus  imitatorum.  There  is  a  cant  of  democracy  as 
well  as  of  aristocracy  ;  and  we  have  seen  both  triumphant  in  our 
day.  The  Jacobin  of  1794  was  the  Anti-Jacobin  of  1814.  The 
loudest  chaunters  of  the  Paeans  of  liberty  were  the  loudest  ap- 
plauders  of  the  restored  doctrine  of  divine  right.  They  drifted 
with  the  stream,  they  sailed  before  the  breeze  in  either  case. 

*  Mercier. 


ON  PERSONAL  CHARACTER.  41 

The   politician  was  changed  ;  the  man  was  the  same,  the  very 
same  ! — But  enough  of  this. 

I  do  not  know  any  moral  to  be  deduced  from  this  view  of  the 
subject  but  one,  namely,  that  we  should  mind  our  own  business, 
cultivate  our  good  qualities,  if  we  have  any,  and  irritate  ourselves 
less  about  the  absurdities  of  other  people,  which  neither  we  nor 
they  can  help.  I  grant  there  is  something  in  what  I  have  said, 
which  might  be  made  to  glance  towards  the  doctrines  of  original 
sin,  grace,  election,  reprobation,  or  the  Gnostic  principle  that  acta 
alone  did  not  determine  the  virtue  or  vice  of  the  character ;  and 
in  those  doctrines,  so  far  as  they  are  deducible  from  what  I  have 
said,  I  agree — but  always  with  a  salvo. 


43  TABLE  TALK. 


ESSAY  XX. 

On  Vulgarity  and  Affectation. 

Few  subjects  are  more  nearly  allied  than  these  two — vulgarity 
and  affectation.  It  may  be  said  of  them  truly  that  "  thin  parti- 
tions do  their  bounds  divide."  There  cannot  be  a  surer  proof 
of  a  low  origin  or  of  an  innate  meanness  of  disposition,  than  to 
be  always  talking  and  thinking  of  being  genteel.  We  must 
have  a  strong  tendency  to  that  which  we  are  always  trying  to 
avoid  :  whenever  we  pretend,  on  all  occasions,  a  mighty  contempt 
for  any  thing,  it  is  a  pretty  clear  sign  that  we  feel  ourselves  very 
nearly  on  a  level  with  it.  Of  the  two  classes  of  people,  I  hardly 
know  which  is  to  be  regarded  with  most  distaste,  the  vulgar 
aping  the  genteel,  or  the  genteel  constantly  sneering  at  and  en- 
deavouring  to  distinguish  themselves  from  the  vulgar.  These 
two  sets  of  persons  are  alwavs  thinking  of  one  another  ;  the  lower 
of  the  higher  with  envy,  the  more  fortunate  of  their  less  happy 
neighbours  with  contempt.  They  are  habitually  placed  in  oppo- 
sition to  each  other ;  jostle  in  their  pretensions  at  every  turn ; 
and  the  same  objects  and  train  of  thought  (only  reserved  by  the 
relative  situation  of  either  party)  occupy  their  whole  time  and  at- 
tention. The  one  are  straining  every  nerve  and  outraging  com- 
mon sense,  to  be  thought  genteel ;  the  others  have  no  other  ob- 
ject or  idea  in  their  heads  than  not  to  be  thought  vulgar.  This 
is  but  poor  spite  ;  a  very  pitiful  style  of  ambition.  To  be  merely 
not  that  which  one  heartily  despises,  is  a  very  humble  claim  to 
superiority  :  to  despise  what  one  really  is,  is  still  worse.  Most 
of  the  characters  in  Miss  Burney's  novels,  the  Branghtons,  the 
Smiths,  the  Dubsters,  the  Cecilias,  the  Delvilles,  &c.  are  well 
met  in  this  respect,  and  much  of  a  piece  :  the  one  half  are  try- 
ing not  to  be  taken  for  themselves,  and  the  other  half  not  to  be 
taken  for  the  first.     They  neither  of  them  have  any  pretensions 


ON  VULGARITY  AND  AFFECTATION.  43 

of  their  own,  or  real  standard  of  worth.  "  A  feather  will  turn 
the  scale  of  their  avoirdupois :"  though  the  fair  authoress  was 
not  aware  of  the  metaphysical  identity  of  her  principal  and  su- 
bordinate characters.     Affectation  is  the  master-key  to  both. 

Gentility  is  only  a  more  select  and  artificial  kind  of  vulgarity. 
It  cannot  exist  but  by  a  sort  of  borrowed  distinction.  It  plumes 
itself  up  and  revels  in  the  homely  pretensions  of  the  mass  of 
mankind.  It  judges  of  the  worth  of  every  thing  by  name,  fash- 
ion, opinion ;  and  hence,  from  the  conscious  absence  of  real 
qualities  or  sincere  satisfaction  in  itself,  it  builds  its  supercilious 
and  fantastic  conceit  on  the  wretchedness  and  wants  of  others. 
Violent  antipathies  are  always  suspicious,  and  betray  a  secret 
affinity.  The  difference  between  the  "  Great  Vulgar  and  the 
Small"  is  mostly  in  outward  circumstances.  The  coxcomb  criti- 
cises the  dress  of  the  clown,  as  the  pedant  cavils  at  the  bad 
grammar  of  the  illiterate,  or  as  the  prude  is  shocked  at  the  back- 
slidings  of  her  frail  acquaintance.  Those  who  have  the  fewest 
resources  in  themselves,  naturally  seek  the  food  of  their  self-love 
elsewhere.  The  most  ignorant  people  find  most  to  laugh  at  in 
strangers  :  scandal  and  satire  prevail  most  in  country-places  ; 
and  a  propensity  to  ridicule  every  the  slightest  or  most  palpable 
deviation  from  what  we  happen  to  approve,  ceases  with  the  pro- 
gress of  common  sense  and  decency.*  True  worth  does  not 
exult  in  the  faults  and  deficiency  of  others  ;  as  true  refinement 
turns  away  from  grossness  and  deformity,  instead  of  being  tempt- 
ed to  indulge  in  an  unmanly  triumph  over  it.  Raphael  would 
not  faint  away  at  the  daubing  of  a  sign-post,  nor  Homer  hold 
his  head  the  higher  for  being  in  the  company  of  a  Grub-street 

*  "  If  an  European,  when  he  has  cut  off  his  beard  and  put  false  hair  on 
his  head,  or  bound  up  his  own  natural  hair  in  regular  hard  knots,  as  unlike 
nature  as  he  can  possibly  make  it;  and  after  having  rendered  them  immove- 
able by  the  help  of  the  fat  of  hogs,  has  covered  the  whole  with  flour,  laid  on 
by  a  machine  with  the  utmost  regularity;  if  when  thus  attired  he  issues  forth, 
and  meets  a  Cherokee  Indian,  who  has  bestowed  as  much  time  at  his  toilet, 
and  laid  on  with  equal  care  and  attention  his  yellow  and  red  ochre  on  particu- 
lar parts  of  his  forehead  or  cheeks,  as  he  judges  most  becoming ;  whoever  of 
these  two  despises  the  other  for  his  attention  to  the  fashion  of  his  country, 
which  ever  first  feels  himself  provoked  to  laugh,  is  the  barbarian." — Sib 
Joshua  Reynolds's  Discourses  Vol.  I.  p.  231,  2. 

4 — PART  II. 


44  TABLE  TALK. 


bard.  Real  power,  real  excellence  does  not  seek  for  a  foil  in  im- 
perfection ;  nor  fear  contamination  from  coming  in  contact  with 
that  which  is  coarse  and  homely.  It  reposes  on  itself,  and  is 
equally  free  from  spleen  and  affectation.  But  the  spirit  of  gen- 
tility is  the  mere  essence  of  spleen  and  affectation ; — of  affected 
delight  in  its  own  would-be  qualifications,  and  of  ineffable  disdain 
poured  out  upon  the  involuntary  blunders  or  accidental  disadvan- 
tages of  those  whom  it  chooses  to  treat  as  its  inferiors. — Thus  a 
fashionable  Miss  titters  till  she  is  ready  to  burst  her  sides  at  the 
uncouth  shape  of  a  bonnet,  or  the  abrupt  drop  of  a  courtesy  (such 
as  Jeanie  Deans  would  make)  in  a  country-girl  who  comes  to  be 
hired  by  her  mamma  as  a  servant : — yet  to  show  how  little  foun- 
dation there  is  for  this  hysterical  expression  of  her  extreme  good 
opinion  of  herself  and  contempt  for  the  untutored  rustic,  she 
would  herself  the  next  day  be  delighted  with  the  very  same 
shaped  bonnet  if  brought  her  by  a  French  milliner  and  told  it 
was  all  the  fashion,  and  in  a  week's  time  will  become  quite  fa- 
miliar with  the  maid,  and  chatter  with  her  (upon  equal  terms) 
about  caps  and  ribbons  and  lace  by  the  hour  together.  There 
is  no  difference  between  them  but  that  of  situation  in  the  kitchen 
or  in  the  parlour :  let  circumstances  bring  them  together,  and 
they  fit  like  hand  and  glove.  It  is  like  mistress,  like  maid.  Their 
talk,  their  thoughts,  their  dreams,  their  likings  and  dislikes  are 
the  same.  The  mistress's  head  runs  continually  on  dress  and 
finery,  so  does  the  maid's :  the  young  lady  longs  to  ride  in  a 
coach  and  six,  so  does  the  maid,  if  she  could :  Miss  forms  a  beau 
ideal  of  a  lover  with  black  eyes  and  rosy  cheeks,  which  does  not 
differ  from  that  of  her  attendant :  both  like  a  smart  man,  the  one 
the  foot-man  and  the  other  his  master,  for  the  same  reason  :  both 
like  handsome  furniture  and  fine  houses :  both  apply  the  terms, 
shocking  and  disagreeable,  to  the  same  things  and  persons :  both 
have  a  great  notion  of  balls,  plays,  treats,  song-books  and  love- 
tales  :  both  like  a  wedding  or  a  christening,  and  both  would  give 
their  little  fingers  to  see  a  coronation,  with  this  difference,  that 
the  one  has  a  chance  of  getting  a  seat  at  it,  and  the  other  is  dy- 
ing with  envy  that  she  has  not.  Indeed,  this  last  is  a  ceremony 
that  delights  equally  the  greatest  monarch  and  the  meanest  of 
his  subjects,  the  vilest  of  the  rabble.     Yet  this  which  is    the 


ON  VULGARITY  AND   AFFECTATION.  45 

freight  of  gentility  and  the  consummation  of  external  distinction 
and  splendour,  is,  I  should  say,  a  vulgar  ceremony.  For  wbat 
degree  of  refinement,  of  capacity,  of  virtue,,  is  required  in  the  in- 
dividual who  i&  so  distinguished,  or  is  necessary  to  his  enjoying 
this  idle  and  imposing  parade  of  his  person  ?  Is  he  delighted 
with  the  state-coach  and  gilded  pannels  ?  So  is  the  poorest  wretch 
that  gazes  at  it.  Is  he  struck  with  the  spirit,  the  beauty  and  sym- 
metry of  the  eight  cream-coloured  horses  ?  There  is  not  one  of 
the  immense  multitude,  who  flock  to  see  the  sight  from  town  or 
country,  St.  Giles's  or  Whitechapel,  young  or  old,  rich  or  poor, 
gentle  or  simple,  who  does  not  agree  to  admire  the  same  object. 
Is  he  delighted  with  the  yeomen  of  the  guard,  the  military  escort, 
the  groups  of  ladies,  the  badges  of  sovereign  power,  the  kingly 
crown,  the  marshal's  truncheon  and  the  judge's  robe,  the  array 
that  precedes  and  follows  him,  the  crowded  streets,  the  windows 
hung  with  eager  looks  ?  So  are  the  mob,  for  they  '?  have  eyes 
and  see  them !"  There  is  no  one  faculty  of  mind  or  body,  natu- 
ral or  acquired,  essential  to  the  principal  figure  in  this  proces- 
sion, more  than  is  common  to  the  meanest  and  most  despised  at- 
tendant on  it.  A  wax- work  figure  would  answer  the  same  pur- 
pose :  a  Lord  Mayor  of  London  has  as  much  tinsel  to  be  proud 
of.  I  would  rather  have  a  king  do  something  that  no  one  else 
has  the  power  or  magnanimity  to  do,  or  say  something  that  no 
one  else  has  the  wisdom  to  say,  or  look  more  handsome,  more 
thoughtful,  or  benign  than  any  one  else  in  his  dominions.  But  I 
see  nothing  to  raise  one's  idea  of  him  in  his  being  made  a  show 
of:  if  the  pageant  would  do  as  well  without  the  man,  the  man 
would  do  as  well  without  the  pageant !  Kings  have  been  de- 
clared to  be  "  lovers  of  low  company  :"  and  this  maxim,  besides 
the  reason  sometimes  assigned  for  it,  viz.  that  they  meet  with  less 
opposition  to  their  wills  from  such  persons,  will  I  suspect  be  found 
to  turn  at  last  on  the  consideration  I  am  here  stating,  that  they 
also  meet  with  more  sympathy  in  their  tastes.  The  most  igno 
rant  and  thoughtless  have  the  greatest  admiration  of  the  baubles, 
the  outward  symbols  of  pomp  and  power,  the  sound  and  show, 
which  are  the  habitual  delight  and  mighty  prerogative  of  kings. 
The  stupidest  slave  worsnips  the  gaudiest  tyrant.  The  same 
gros?  motives  appeal  to  the  same  gross  capacities,  flatter  the  priae 

11 


16  TABLE  TALK. 


of  the  superior  and  excite  the  servility  of  the  cependant :  where- 
as  a  higher  reach  of  moral  and  intellectual  refinement  might 
seek  in  vain  for  higher  proofs  of  internal  worth  and  inherent  ma- 
jesty  in  the  object  of  its  idolatry,  and  not  finding  the  divinity 
lodged  within,  the  unreasonable  expectation  raised  would  pro- 
bably end  in  mortification  on  both  sides !  There  is  little  to  dis- 
tinguish a  king  from  his  subjects  but  the  rabble's  shout — if  he 
loses  that  and  is  reduced  to  the  forlorn  hope  of  gaining  the  suf 
frages  of  the  wise  and  good,  he  is  of  all  men  the  most  miserable. 
•  —But  enough  of  this. 

"  I  like  it,"  says  Miss  Branghton*  in  Evelina,  (meaning  the 
Opera,)  "  because  it  is  not  vulgar."  That  is,  she  likes  it,  not 
because  there  is  any  thing  to  like  in  it,  but  because  other  people 
are  prevented  from  liking  or  knowing  any  thing  about  it.  Janus 
Weathercock,  Esq.,  laugheth  to  scorn  and  despitefully  entreateth 
and  hugely  condemneth  my  dramatic  articles  in  the  London 
Magazine,  for  a  like  reason.  I  must  therefore  make  an  example 
of  him  in  terrorem  to  all  such  hypercritics.  He  finds  fault  with 
me  and  calls  my  taste  vulgar,  because  I  go  to  Sadler's  Wells 
("a  place  he  has  heard  of" — O  Lord,  Sir!) — because  I  notice 
the  Miss  Dennetts,  "  great  favourites  with  the  Whitechapel  or- 
ders"— praise  Miss  Valancy,  "  a  bouncing  Columbine  at  Astley's 
and  them  there  places,  as  his  barber  informs  him"  (has  he 
no  way  of  establishing  himself  in  his  own  good  opinion  but  by 
triumphing  over  his  barber's  bad  English  ?) — and  finally,  because 
I  recognize  the  existence  of  the  Cobourg  and  the  Surrey  theatres, 
at  the  names  of  which  he  cries  "  Faugh"  with  great  significance, 
as  if  he  had  some  personal  disgust  at  them,  and  yet  he  would  be 
supposed  never  to  have  entered  them.  It  is  not  his  cue  as  a  well- 
bred  critic.  C'est  beau  pa.  Now  this  appears  to  me  a  very  crude, 
unmeaning,  indiscriminate,  wholesale  and  vulgar  way  of  think- 
ing. It  is  prejudging  things  in  the  lump,  by  names  and  places 
and  classes,  instead  of  judging  of  them  by  what  they  are  in  them- 
selves, by  their  real  qualities  and  shades  of  distinction.  There  ia 
no  selection,  truth,  or  delicacy  in  such  a  mode  of  proceeding.     It 

*  This  n»me  was  originally  spelt  Braughton  in  the  manuscript,  and  was 
altered  to  Branghton  by  a  mistake  of  the  printer.  Branghton,  however, 
was  thought  a  good  name  for  the  occasion,  and  was  suffered  to  stand. 


ON  VULGARITY  AND  AFFECTATION.  47 

is  affecting  ignorance,  and  making  it  a  title  to  wisdom.  It  is  a 
vapid  assumption  of  superiority.  It  is  exceeding  impertinence. 
It  is  rank  coxcombry.  It  is  nothing  in  the  world  else.  To  con- 
demn because  the  multitude  admire  is  as  essentially  vulgar  as  to 
admire  because  they  admire.  There  is  no  exercise  of  taste  or 
judgment  in  either  case  :  both  are  equally  repugnant  to  good 
sense,  and  of  the  two  I  should  prefer  the  good-natured  side.  I 
would  as  soon  agree  with  my  barber  as  differ  from  him  :  and 
why  should  I  make  a  point  of  reversing  the  sentence  of  the  White- 
chapel  orders  ?  Or  how  can  it  affect  my  opinion  of  the  merits  of 
an  actor  at  the  Cobourg  or  the  Surrey  theatres,  that  these  theatres 
are  in  or  out  of  the  Bills  of  Mortality  ?  This  is  an  easy,  short- 
hand way  of  judging,  as  gross  as  it  is  mechanical.  It  is  nol  a  dif- 
ficult matter  to  settle  questions  of  taste  by  consulting  the  map  of 
London,  or  to  prove  your  liberality  by  geographical  distinctions. 
Janus  jumbles  things  together  strangely.  If  he  had  seen  Mr. 
Kean  in  a  provincial  theatre,  at  Exeter  or  Taunton,  he  would 
have  thought  it  vulgar  to  admire  him  :  but  when  he  had  been 
stamped  in  London,  Janus  would  no  doubt  show  his  discernment 
and  the  subtlety  of  his  tact  for  the  display  of  character  and  pas- 
sion, by  not  being  behind  the  fashion.  The  Miss  Dennetts  are 
"  little  unformed  girls,"  for  no  other  reason  than  because  they 
danced  at  one  of  the  minor  theatres  :  let  them  but  come  out  on 
the  Opera  boards,  and  let  the  beauty  and  fashion  of  the  season 
greet  them  with  a  fairy  shower  of  delighted  applause,  and  they 
would  outshine  Milanie  "  with  the  foot  of  fire."  His  gorge  rises 
at  the  mention  of  a  certain  quarter  of  the  town  :  whatever  passes 
current  in  another,  he  "  swallows  total  grist  unsifted,  husks  and 
all."  This  is  not  taste,  but  folly.  At  this  rate,  the  hackney- 
coachman  who  drives  him,  or  his  horse  Contributor  whom  he  has 
introduced  as  a  select  personage  to  the  vulgar  reader,  knows  as 
much  of  the  matter  as  he  does. — In  a  word,  the  answer  to  all  this 
in  the  first  instance  is  to  say  what  vulgarity  is.  Now  its  essence, 
I  imagine,  consists  in  taking  manners,  actions,  words,  opinions,  on 
trust  from  others,  without  examining  one's  own  feelings  or  weigh- 
ing the  merits  of  the  case.  It  is  coarseness  or  shallowness  of 
taste,  arising  from  want  of  individual  refinement,  together  with  the 
confidence  and  presu  nption  inspired  by  example  and  numbers 

11 


43  TABLE  TALK. 


It  ma.y  be  denned  to  be  a  prostitution  of  the  mind  or  body  to  ape 
the  more  or  less  obvious  defects  of  others,  because  by  so  doing  we 
shall  secure  the  suffrages  of  those  we  associate  with.  To  aifect 
a  gesture,  an  opinion,  a  phrase,  because  it  is  the  rage  with  a  large 
number  of  persons,  or  to  hold  it  in  abhorrence  because  another  set 
of  persons,  very  little,  if  at  all,  better  informed,  cry  it  down  to  dis- 
tinguish themselves  from  the  former,  is  in  either  case  equal  vul 
garity  and  absurdity. — A  thing  is  not  vulgar  merely  because  it  is 
common.  'Tis  common  to  breathe,  to  see,  to  feel,  to  live.  Nothing 
is  vulgar  that  is  natural,  spontaneous,  unavoidable.  Grossness 
is  not  vulgarity,  ignorance  is  not  vulgarity,  awkwardness  is  not 
vulgarity :  but  all  these  become  vulgar  when  they  are  affected 
and  shown  off  on  the  authority  of  others,  or  to  fall  in  with  the 
fashion  or  the  company  we  keep.  Caliban  is  coarse  enough,  but 
surely  he  is  not  vulgar.  We  might  as  well  spurn  the  clod  under 
our  feet,  and  call  it  vulgar.  Cobbett  is  coarse  enough,  but  he  is 
not  vulgar.  He  does  not  belong  to  the  herd.  Nothing  real, 
nothing  original  can  be  vulgar :  but  I  should  think  an  imitator  of 
Cobbett  a  vulgar  man.  Emery's  Yorkshireman  is  vulgar,  because 
he  is  a  Yorkshireman.  It  is  the  cant  and  gibberish,  the  cunning 
and  low  life  of  a  particular  district ;  it  has  "  a  stamp  exclusive 
and  provincial."  He  might  "  gabble  most  brutishly"  and  yet  not 
fall  under  the  letter  of  the  definition :  but  "  his  speech  bewrayeth 
him,"  his  dialect  (like  the  jargon  of  a  Bond-street  lounger)  is  the 
damning  circumstance.  If  he  were  a  mere  blockhead,  it  would 
not  signify :  but  he  thinks  himself  a  knowing  hand,  according  to 
the  notions  and  practices  of  those  with  whom  he  was  brought 
up,  and  which  he  thinks  the  go  everywhere.  In  a  word,  this 
character  is  not  the  offspring  of  untutored  nature,  but  of  bad  habits ; 
it  is  made  up  of  ignorance  and  conceit.  It  has  a  mixture  of  slang 
in  it.  All  slang  phrases  are  for  the  same  reason  vulgar ;  but 
there  is  nothing  vulgar  in  the  common  English  idiom.  Simplicity 
is  not  vulgarity ;  but  the  looking  to  affectation  of  any  sort  for  dis- 
tinction is.  A  cockney  is  a  vulgar  character,  whose  imagination 
cannot  wander  beyond  the  suburbs  of  the  metropolis  :  so  is  a  fel 
low  who  is  always  thinking  of  the  High-street,  Edinburgh.  We 
want  a  name  for  this  last  character.  An  opinion  is  vulgar  that  is 
stewed  in  the  rank  breath  of  the  rabble :  nor  is  it  a  bit  purer  or 


ON  VULGARITY  AND  AFFECTATION.  49 

more  refined  for  having  passed  through  the  well-cleansed  teeth  of 
a  whole  court.  The  inherent  vulgarity  is  in  having  no  other 
feeling  on  any  subject  than  the  crude,  blind,  headlong,  gregarious 
notion  acquired  by  sympathy  with  the  mixed  multitude  or  with  a 
fastidious  minority,  who  are  just  as  insensible  to  the  real  truth, 
and  as  indifferent  to  every  thing  but  their  own  frivolous  and  vexa- 
tious pretensions.  The  upper  are  not  wiser  than  the  lower  orders, 
because  they  resolve  to  differ  from  them.  The  fashionable  have 
the  advantage  of  the  unfashionable  in  nothing  but  the  fashion. 
The  true  vulgar  are  the  servum  pecus  imitatorum — the  herd  of 
pretenders  to  what  they  do  not  feel  and  to  what  is  not  natural  to 
them,  whether  in  high  or  low  life.  To  belong  to  any  class,  to 
move  in  any  rank  or  sphere  of  life,  is  not  a  very  exclusive  dis- 
tinction or  test  of  refinement.  Refinement  will  in  all  classes  be 
the  exception,  not  the  rule  ;  and  the  exception  may  fall  out  in  one 
class  as  well  as  another.  A  king  is  but  an  hereditary  title.  A 
nobleman  is  only  one  of  the  House  of  Peers.  To  be  a  knight  or 
alderman  is  confessedly  a  vulgar  thing.  The  king  the  other  day 
made  Sir  Walter  Scott  a  baronet,  but  not  all  the  power  of  the 
Three  Estates  could  make  another  Author  of  Waverley.  Princes, 
heroes  are  often  common-place  people  :  Hamlet  was  not  a  vulgar 
character,  neither  was  Don  Quixote.  To  be  an  author,  to  be  a 
painter,  is  nothing.     It  is  a  trick,  it  is  a  trade. 

"  An  author!  'tis  a  venerable  name : 

How  few  deserve  it,  yet  what  numbers  claim !" 

Nay,  to  be  a  Member  of  the  Royal  Academy,  or  a  Fellow  of  the 
Royal  Society,  is  but  a  vulgar  distinction.  But  to  be  a  Virgil,  a 
Milton,  a  Raphael,  a  Claude,  is  what  fell  to  the  lot  of  humanity 
but  once !  I  do  not  think  they  were  vulgar  people,  though  for 
any  thing  I  know  to  the  contrary  the  first  Lord  of  the  Bed-cham- 
ber may  be  a  very  vulgar  man  :  for  any  thing  I  know  to  the  con- 
trary, he  may  not  be  so. — Such  are  pretty  much  my  notions  of 
gentility  and  vulgarity. 

There  is  a  well-dressed  and  an  ill-dressed  mob,  both  which  I 
hate.  Odi  prqfanum  vulgus,  et  arceo.  The  vapid  affectation  of 
the  one  is  to  me  even  more  intolerable  than  the  gross  insolence 
and  brutality  of  the  other.     If  a  set  of  low-lived  fellows  are 


50  TABLE  TALK. 


noisy,  rude,  and  boisterous,  to  show  their  disregard  of  the  com- 
pany, a  set  of  fashionable  coxcombs  are,  to  a  nauseous  degree, 
finical  and  effeminate,  to  show  their  thorough  breeding.  The 
one  are  governed  by  their  feelings,  however  coarse  and  mis- 
guided, which  is  something  :  the  others  consult  only  appearances, 
which  are  nothing,  either  as  a  test  of  happiness  or  virtue.  Ho- 
garth in  his  prints  has  trimmed  the  balance  of  pretension  be- 
tween the  downright  blackguard  and  the  soi-disant  fine  gentle- 
man unanswerably.  It  does  not  appear  in  his  moral  demonstra- 
tions (whatever  it  may  do  in  the  genteel  letter-writing  of  Lord 
Chesterfield,  or  the  chivalrous  rhapsodies  of  Burke,)  that  vice  by 
losing  all  its  giossness  loses  half  its  evil.  It  becomes  more  con- 
temptible, not  less  disgusting.  What  is  there  in  common,  for  in- 
stance, between  his  beaux  and  belles,  his  rakes  and  his  coquets, 
and  the  men  and  women,  the  true  heroic  and  ideal  characters  in 
Raphael  ?  But  his  people  of  fashion  and  quality  are  just  upon 
a  par  with  the  low,  the  selfish,  the  unideal  characters  in  the  con- 
trasted view  of  human  life,  and  are  often  the  very  same  charac- 
ters, only  changing  places.  If  the  lower  ranks  are  actuated  by 
envy  and  nncharitableness  towards  the  upper,  the  latter  have 
scarcely  any  feelings  but  of  pride,  contempt,  and  aversion  to  the 
lower.  If  the  poor  would  pull  down  the  rich  to  get  at  their  good 
things,  the  rich  would  tread  down  the  poor  as  in  a  vine-press, 
and  squeeze  the  last  shilling  out  of  their  pockets  and  the  last  drop 
of  blood  out  of  their  veins.  If  the  headstrong  self-will  and  un- 
ruly turbulence  of  a  common  ale-house  are  shocking,  what  shall 
we  say  to  the  studied  insincerity,  the  inspired  want  of  common 
sense,  the  callous  insensibility  of  the  drawing-room  and  boudoir  ? 
I  would  rather  see  the  feelings  of  our  common  nature  (for  they 
are  the  same  at  bottom)  expressed  in  the  most  naked  and  unquali- 
fied way,  than  see  every  feeling  of  our  nature  suppressed,  stifled, 
hermetically  sealed  under  the  smooth,  cold,  glittering  varnish  of 
pretended  refinement  and  conventional  politeness.  The  one  may 
be  corrected  by  being  better  informed  ;  the  other  is  incorrigible, 
wilful,  heartless  depravity.  I  cannot  describe  the  contempt  and 
disgust  1  have  felt  at  the  tone  of  what  would  be  thought  good 
company,  when  I  have  witnessed  the  sleek,  smiling,  glossy,  gra- 
tuitous assumption  of  superiority  fo   every  feeling  of  humanity, 


ON  VULGARITY  AND  AFFECTATION.  51 

honesty  or  principle,  making  part  of  the  etiquette,  the  mental  and 
moral  costume  of  the  table,  and  every  orofession  of  toleration  or 
favour  for  the  lower  orders,  that  is,  for  the  great  mass  of  our  fel- 
low-creatures, treated  as  an  indecorum  and  breach  of  the  har- 
mony of  well-regulated  society.  In  short,  I  prefer  a  bear-garden 
to  the  adder's  den.  Or  to  put  the  case  in  its  extremest  point  of 
view,  I  have  more  patience  with  men  in  a  rude  state  of 
nature  outraging  the  human  form,  than  I  have  with  apes  "  mak- 
ing mops  and  mows"  at  the  extravagances  they  have  first  pro- 
voked. I  can  endure  the  brutality  (as  it  is  termed)  of  mobs  better 
than  the  inhumanity  of  courts.  The  violence  of  the  one  rages 
like  a  fire  ;  the  insidious  policy  of  the  other  strikes  like  a  pesti- 
lence, and  is  more  fatal  and  inevitable.  The  slow  poison  of  des- 
potism is  worse  than  the  convulsive  struggles  of  anarchy.  "  Of 
all  evils,"  says  Hume,  "  anarchy  is  the  shortest-lived."  The 
one  may  "  break  out  like  a  wild  overthrow ;"  but  the  other  from 
its  secret,  sacred  stand  operates  unseen,  and  undermines  the  hap- 
piness of  kingdoms  for  ages,  lurks  in  the  hollow  cheek  and  stares 
you  in  the  face  in  the  ghastly  eye  of  want  and  agony  and  woe. 
It  is  dreadful  to  hear  the  noise  and  uproar  of  an  infuriated  mul- 
titude stung  by  the  sense  of  wrong,  and  maddened  by  sympathy  : 
it  is  more  appalling  to  think  of  the  smile  answered  by  other 
gracious  smiles,  of  the  whisper  echoed  by  other  assenting  whis- 
pers, which  doom  them  first  to  despair  and  then  to  destruction. 
Popular  fury  finds  its  counterpart  in  courtly  servility.  If  every 
outrage  is  to  be  apprehended  from  the  one,  every  iniquity  is  deli, 
berately  sanctioned  by  the  other,  without  regard  to  justice  or  de- 
cency. The  word  of  a  king,  "  Go  thou  and  do  likewise,"  makes 
the  stoutest  heart  dumb :  truth  and  virtue  shrink  before  it.*  If 
there  are  watchwords  for  the  rabble,  have  not  the  polite  and 
fashionable  their  hackneyed  phrases,  their  fulsome  unmeaning 
jargon  as  well  ?     Both  are  to  me  anathema  ! 

To  return  to  the  first  question,  as  it  regards  individual  and 
Drivate  manners.  There  is  a  fine  illustration  of  the  effects  of 
preposterous  and  affected  gentility  in  the  character  of  Gertrude, 

*  A  lady  of  quality,  in  allusion  to  the  gallantries  of  a  reigning  Prince,  being 
told,  "I  suppose  it  will  be  your  turn  nextl"  said,  "No:  for  you  know  it  ia 
impossible  to  refuse !" 


52  TABLE  TALK. 

in  the  old  comedy  of  Eastward  Ho,  written  by  Ben  Jonson, 
Marston,  and  Chapman  in  conjunction.  This  play  is  supposed 
to  have  given  rise  to  Hogarth'3  series  of  prints  of  the  Idle  and 
Industrious  Apprentice  ;  and  there  is  something  exceedingly  Ho- 
garthian  in  the  view  both  of  vulgar  and  of  genteel  life  here  dis- 
played. The  character  of  Gertrude  in  particular,  the  heroine 
of  the  piece,  is  inimitably  drawn.  The  mixture  of  vanity  and 
meanness,  the  internal  worthlessness  and  external  pretence,  the 
rustic  ignorance  and  fine  lady-like  airs,  the  intoxication  of  nov- 
elty and  infatuation  of  pride,  appear  like  a  dream  or  romance, 
rather  than  any  thing  in  real  life.  Cinderella  and  her  glass-slip- 
per are  common-place  to  it.  She  is  not,  like  Millamant  (a  cen- 
tury afterwards,)  the  accomplished  fine  lady,  but  a  pretender  to 
all  the  foppery  and  finery  of  the  character.  It  is  the  honey- 
moon with  her  ladyship,  and  her  folly  is  at  the  full.  To  be  a 
wife  and  the  wife  of  a  knight  are  to  her  pleasures  "  worn  in 
their  newest  gloss,"  and  nothing  can  exceed  her  raptures  in  the 
contemplation  of  both  parts  of  the  dilemma.  It  is  not  familiari- 
ty, but  novelty  that  weds  her  to  the  court.  She  rises  into  the  air 
of  gentility  from  the  rank  soil  of  a  city-life,  and  flutters  about 
there  with  all  the  fantastic  delight  of  a  butterfly  that  has  just 
changed  its  caterpillar  state.  The  sound  of  My  Lady  intoxi- 
cates her  with  delight,  makes  her  giddy,  and  almost  turns  her 
brain.  On  the  bare  strength  of  it  she  is  ready  to  turn  her  father 
md  mother  out  of  doors,  and  treats  her  brother  and  sister  with 
infinite  disdain  and  judicial  hardness  of  heart.  With  some 
speculators,  the  modern  philosophy  has  deadened  and  distorted 
all  the  natural  affections :  and  before  abstract  ideas  and  the  mis- 
chievous refinements  of  literature  were  introduced,  nothing  was 
to  be  met  with  in  the  primeval  state  of  society  but  simplicity  and 
pastoral  innocence  of  manners — 

"  And  all  was  conscience  and  tender  heart." 

This  historical  play  gives  the  lie  to  the  above  theory  pretty 
broadly,  yet  delicately.  Our  heroine  is  as  vain  as  she  is  igno- 
rant, and  as  unprincipled  as  she  is  both ;  and  without  an  idea  or 
wish  of  any  kind  but  that  of  adorning  her  person  in  the  glas3, 
and  being  called  and  thought  a  lady,  something  superior  to  a 


ON   AJLGARITY  AND  AFFECTATION.  53 

citizen's  wife.*     She  is  so  bent  on  finery  that  she  believes  in 
miracles  to  obtain  it,  and  expects  the  fairies  to  bring  it  her.     She 

*  "  Girtred.  For  the  passion  of  patience,  look  if  Sir  Petronel  approach. 
That  sweet,  that  fine,  that  delicate,  that — for  love's  sake  tell  me  if  he  come. 
Oh,  sister  Mill,  though  my  father  be  a  low-capt  tradesman,  yet  I  must  be  a 
lady,  and  I  praise  God  my  mother  must  call  me  Madam.  Does  he  come? 
Off  with  this  gown  for  shame's  sake,  off  with  this  gown !  Let  not  my  knight 
take  me  in  the  city  cut,  in  any  hand!  Tear't!  Pox  on't  (does  he  come'?) 
tear't  off!     Thus  while  she  sleeps,  I  sorrow  for  her  sake.  (Sings.) 

Mildred.  Lord,  sister,  with  what  an  immodest  impatiency  and  disgraceful 
scorn  do  you  put  off  your  city-tire  !  I  am  sorry  to  think  you  imagine  to  right 
yourself  in  wronging  that  which  hath  made  both  you  and  us. 

Gir.  I  tell  you,  I  cannot  endure  it:  I  must  be  a  lady:  do  you  wear  your 
quoiff  with  a  London  licket !  your  stamel  petticoat  with  two  guards  !  the  buf- 
fin  gown  with  the  tuftafitty  cap  and  the  velvet  lace  !  I  must  be  a  lady ;  and 
1  will  be  a  lady.  I  like  some  humours  of  the  city  dames  well :  to  eat  cher- 
ries only  at  an  angel  a  pound ;  good :  to  dye  rich  scarlet  black ;  pretty :  to  line 
a  grogram  gown  clean  through  with  velvet ;  tolerable :  their  pure  linen,  their 
smocks  of  three  pound  a  smock,  arc  to  be  borne  withal :  but  your  mincing 
niceries,  taffity  pipkins,  durance  petticoats,  and  silver  bodkins — God's  my  life  ! 
as  I  shall  be  a  lady,  I  cannot  endure  it. 

Mil.  Well,  sister,  those  that  scorn  their  nest,  oft  fly  with  a  sick  wing. 

Gir.  Bow-bell!  Alas,  poor  Mill,  when  I  am  a  lady,  I'll  pray  for  thee  yet, 
i'faith ;  nay,  and  I'll  vouchsafe  to  call  thee  sister  Mill  still ;  for  though  thou 
aifcnot  like  to  be  a  lady  as  I  am,  yet  surely  thou  art  a  creature  of  God's  ma- 
king, and  may'st  peradventure  be  saved  as  soon  as  I  (does  he  come  1)  And 
ever  and  anon  she  doubled  in  her  song. 

Mil.  Now  (lady's  my  comfort)  what  a  profane  ape's  here! 

Enter  Sir  Petronel  Flash,  Mr.  Touchstone,  and  Mrs.  Touchstone. 

Gir.  Is  my  knight  come "?  O  the  lord,  my  band  !  Sister,  do  my  cheeks 
look  well  1  Give  me  a  little  box  o'  the  ear,  that  I  may  seem  to  blush.  Now, 
now  !  so,  there,  there  !  here  he  is  !  O  my  dearest  delight!  Lord,  lord  !  and 
how  does  my  knight  1 

Touchstone.  Fie,  with  more  modesty. 

Gir.  Modesty  !  why,  I  am  no  citizen  now.  Modesty  !  am  I  not  to  be  mar- 
ried 1    You're  best  to  keep  me  modest,  now  I  am  to  be  a  lady. 

Sir  Petronel.  Boldness  is  a  good  fashion,  and  court-like. 

Gir.  Aye,  in  a  country  lady  I  hope  it  is,  as  I  shall  be.  And  how  chance  ye 
came  no  sooner,  knight  1 

Sir  Pet.  Faith,  I  was  so  entertained  in  the  progress  with  one  Count  Eper- 
noun,  a  Welch  knight :  we  had  a  match  at  baloon  too  with  my  Lord  Whack- 
um  for  four  crowns. 

Gir.  And  when  shall  's  be  married,  my  knight  1 

Sir  Pet.  I  am  come  now  to  consummate :  and  your  father  may  call  a  pool 

knight  son-in-law. 

11* 


54  TABLE  TALK. 


is  quite  above  thinking  of  a  settlement,  jointure,  or  pin-money. 
She  takes  lie  will  for  the  deed  all  through  the  piece,  and  is  so 

Mrs.  Touchstone.  Yes,  that  he  is  a  knight :  I  know  where  he  had  money  to 
pay  the  gentlemen  ushers  and  heralds  their  fees.  Aye,  that  he  is  a  knight: 
and  so  might  you  have  been  too.  if  you  had  been  aught  else  but  an  ass,  as  well 
as  some  of  your  neighbours.  An'  1  thought  you  would  not  ha'  been  knighted, 
as  I  am  an  honest  woman,  I  would  ha'  dubbed  you  myself.  1  praise  God,  I 
have  wherewithal.     But  as  for  you,  daughter 

Gir.  Aye,  mother,  I  must  be  a  lady  to-morrow  ;  and  by  your  leave,  mother 
(I  speak  it  not  without  my  duty,  but  only  in  the  right  of  my  husband),  I  must 
take  place  of  you,  mother. 

Mrs.  Touch.  That  you  shall,  lady-daughter;  and  have  a  coach  as  well  as  I. 

Gir.  Yes,  mother ;  but  my  coach-horses  must  take  the  wall  of  your  coach- 
horses. 

Touch.  Come,  come,  the  day  grows  low;  'tis  supper-time  :  and  sir,  respect 
my  daughter ;  she  has  refused  for  you  wealthy  and  honest  matches,  known 
good  men. 

Gir.  Body  o'truth,  citizens,  citizens !  Sweet  knight,  as  soon  as  ever  we 
are  married,  take  me  to  thy  mercy,  out  of  this  miserable  city.  Presently : 
carry  me  out  of  the  scent  of  Newcastle  coal  and  the  hearing  of  Bow-bell,  1 
beseech  thee  ;  down  with  me,  for  God's  sake."     Act  I.  Scene  I. 

This  dotage  on  sound  and  show  seemed  characteristic  of  that  age  (see  New 
Way  to  Pay  Old  Debts,  &c.) — as  if  in  the  grossness  of  sense,  and  the  absence 
of  all  intellectual  and  abstract  topics  of  thought  and  discourse  (the  thin,  circu- 
lating medium  of  the  present  day),  the  mind  was  attracted  without  the  power 
of  resistance  to  the  tinkling  sound  of  its  own  name  with  a  title  added  to  it, 
and  the  image  of  its  own  person  tricked  out  in  old-fashioned  finery.  The  ef- 
fect, no  doubt,  was  also  more  marked  and  striking  from  the  contrast  between 
the  ordinary  penury  and  poverty  of  the  age  and  the  first  and  more  extrava- 
gant demonstrations  of  luxury  and  artificial  refinement.  Here  is  one  more 
specimen. 

"  Girtred.  Good  lord,  that  there  are  no  fairies  now-a-days,  Syn. 

Syndefy.  Why,  Madam  1 

Gir.  To  do  miracles,  and  bring  ladies  money.  Sure,  if  we  lay  in  a  cleanly 
house,  they  would  haunt  it,  Synne?  I'll  try.  I'll  sweep  the  chamber  soon  at 
night,  and  set  a  dish  of  water  o'  the  hearth.  A  fairy  may  come  and  bring  a 
pearl  or  a  diamond.  We  do  not  know,  Synne :  or  there  may  be  a  pot  of  gold 
hid  in  the  yard,  if  we  had  tools  to  dig  for  't.  Why  may  not  we  two  rise  early 
i'  the  morning.  Synne,  afore  any  body  is  up,  and  find  a  jewel  i'  the  streets 
worth  a  hundred  pounds'?  May  not  some  great  court-lady,  as  she  comes 
from  revels  at  midnight,  look  out  of  her  coach,  as  'tis  running,  and  lose  such 
e  jewel  and  we  find  it  1  ha! 

Syn.  They  are  pretty  waking  dreams,  these. 

Gir.  Or  may  not  some  old  usurer  be  drunk  over-night  with  h  bag  of  money, 


ON  VULGARITY  AND  AFFECTATION.  55 

besotted  with  this  ignorant,  vulgar  notion  of  rank  and  title  as  a 
real  thing  that  cannot  be  counterfeited,  that  she  is  the  dupe  of 
her  own  fine  stratagems,  and  marries  a  gull,  a  dolt,  a  broken 
adventurer,  for  an  accomplished  and  brave  gentleman.  Her 
meanness  is  equal  to  her  folly  or  her  pride  (and  nothing  can  be 
greater,)  yet  she  holds  out  on  the  strength  of  her  original  pre- 
tensions for  a  long  time,  and  plays  the  upstart  with  decent  and 
imposing  consistency.  Indeed,  her  infatuation  and  caprices  are 
akin  to  the  flighty  perversity  of  a  disordered  imagination ;  ana 
another  turn  of  the  wheel  of  good  or  evil  fortune  would  have 
sent  her  to  keep  company  with  Hogarth's  Merveilleuses  in  Bedlam, 
or  with  Deckar's  group  of  Coquettes  in  the  samejlace. — The 
other  parts  of  the  play  are  a  dreary  lee-shore,  like  Cuckold's 
Point  on  the  coast  of  Essex,  where  the  preconcerted  shipwreck 
♦akes  place  that  winds  up  the  catastrophe  of  the  piece.  But  this 
is  also  characteristic  of  the  age,  and  serves  as  a  contrast  to  the 
airy  and  factitious  character  which  is  the  principal  figure  in  the 
plot.  We  had  made  but  little  progress  from  that  point  till  Ho- 
garth's time,  if  Hogarth  is  to  be  believed  in  his  description  of 
city  manners.     How  wonderfully  we  have  distanced  it  since ! 

Without  going  into  this  at  length,  there  is  one  circumstance  I 
would  mention  in  which  I  think  there  has  been  a  striking  im- 
provement in  the  family  economy  of  modern  times — and  that  is, 
in  the  relation  of  mistresses  and  servants.  After  visits  and  finery, 
a  married  woman  of  the  old  school  had  nothing  to  do  but  to  at- 
tend to  her  housewifery.  She  had  no  other  resource,  no  other 
sense  of  power,  but  to  harangue  and  lord  it  over  her  domestics. 
Modern  book-education  supplies  the  place  of  the  old-fashioned 
system  of  kitchen  persecution  and  eloquence.  A  well-bred  wo- 
man now  seldom  goes  into  the  kitchen  to  look  after  the  servants: 
— formerly  what  was  called  a  good  manager,  an  exemplary  mis- 
tress of  a  family,  did  nothing  but  hunt  them  from  morning  to 

and  leave  it  behind  him  on  a  stall  1  For  God's  sake,  Syn,  let 's  rise  to-mor- 
row by  break  of  day,  and  see.  I  protest,  la  !  if  I  had  as  much  money  as  an 
alderman,  I  would  scatter  some  on;t  i'  the  streets,  for  poor  ladies  to  find  when 
their  knights  were  laid  up.  And  now  I  remember  my  song  of  the  Golden 
Shower,  why  may  not  I  have  such  a  fortune  1  I'll  sing  it,  and  try  what  luck 
I  shall  have  after  it."    Act  V  Scene  I. 


86  TABLE  TALK. 


night,  from  me  year's  end  to  another,  without  leaving  them  a 
moment's  rest,  peace,  or  comfort.  Now  a  servant  is  left  to  do 
her  work  without  this  suspicious  and  tormenting  interference  and 
fault-finding  at  every  step,  and  she  does  it  all  the  better.  The 
proverbs  about  the  mistress's  eye,  &c.  are  no  longer  held  for  cur- 
rent.  A  woman  from  this  habit,  which  at  last  became  an  un- 
conquerable passion,  would  scold  her  maids  for  fifty  years  to- 
gether, and  nothing  could  stop  her  :  now  the  temptation  to  read 
the  last  new  poem  or  novel,  and  the  necessity  of  talking  of  it  in 
the  next  company  she  goes  into,  prevent  her — and  the  benefit  to 
■?I1  parties  is  incalculable ! 


ON  ANTiaUlTY.        .  57 


ESSAY  XXI. 

On  Antiquity. 

There  is  no  such  thing  as  Antiquity  in  the  ordinary  acceptation 
we  affix  to  the  term.  Whatever  is  or  has  been,  while  it  is  pass- 
ing, must  be  modern.  The  early  ages  may  have  been  barbarous 
in  themselves  ;  but  they  *ha\e  become  ancient  with  the  slow  and 
silent  lapse  of  successive  generations.  The  "  olden  times"  are 
only  such  in  reference  10  us.  The  past  is  rendered  strange,  mys- 
terious, visionary,  awful,  from  the  great  gap  in  time  that  parts 
us  from  it,  and  the  long  perspective  of  waning  years.  Things 
gone  by  and  almost  forgotten,  look  dim  and  dull,  uncouth  and 
quaint,  from  our  ignorance  of  them,  and  the  mutability  of  cus- 
toms. But  in  their  day  they  were  fresh,  unimpaired,  in  full  vig- 
our, familiar,  and  glossy.  The  Children  in  the  Wood,  and  Per- 
cy's Relics,  were  once  recent  productions  ;  and  Auld  Robin  Gray 
was,  in  his  time,  a  very  common-place  old  fellow  !  The  wars  of 
York  and  Lancaster,  while  they  lasted,  were  "  lively,  audible, 
ind  full  of  vent,"  as  fresh  and  lusty  as  the  white  and  red  roses 
that  distinguished  their  different  banners,  though  they  have  since 
become  a  by-word  and  a  solecism  in  history. 

The  sun  shone  in  Julius  Caesar's  time  just  as  it  does  now.  On 
the  road-side  between  Winchester  and  Salisbury  are  some  remains 
of  old  Roman  encampments,  with  their  double  lines  of  circumval- 
lation  (now  turned  into  pasture  for  sheep,)  which  answer  exactly 
to  the  descriptions  of  this  kind  in  Caesar's  Commentaries.  In  a 
dull  and  cloudy  atmosphere,  I  can  conceive  that  this  is  the  iden- 
tical spot  that  the  first  Caesar  trod  ;  and  figure  to  myself  the  de- 
liberate movements  and  scarce  perceptible  march  of  close-em- 
bodied legions.  But  if  the  sun  breaks  out,  making  its  way  through 
dazzling,  fleecy  clouds,  lights  up  the  blue  serene,  and  gilas  the 
sombre  earth,  I  can  no  longer  persuade  myself  that  it  is  the  same 
scene  as  formerly,  or  transfer  the  actual  image  before  me  so  far 


63  TABLE  TALK. 


back.  The  brightness  of  nature  is  not  easily  reduced  to  the  low, 
twilight  tone  of  history ;  and  the  impressions  of  sense  defeat  and 
dissipate  the  faint  traces  of  learning  and  tradition.  It  is  only  by 
an  effort  of  reason,  to  which  fancy  is  averse,  that  I  bring  myself 
to  believe  that  the  sun  shone  as  bright,  that  the  sky  was  as  blue, 
and  the  earth  as  green,  two  thousand  years  ago  as  it  is  at  present. 
How  ridiculous  this  seems  ;  yet  so  it  is  ! 

The  dark  or  middle  ages,  when  every  thing  was  hid  in  the  fog 
and  haze  of  confusion  and  ignorance,  seem,  to  the  same  involun- 
tary kind  of  prejudice,  older  and  farther  off,  and  more  inacces- 
sible to  the  imagination,  than  the  brilliant  and  well-defined  periods 
of  Greece  and  Rome.  A  Gothic  ruin  appears  buried  in  a  greater 
depth  of  obscurity,  to  be  weighed  down  and  rendered  venerable 
with  the  hoar  of  more  distant  ages,  to  have  been  longer  moulder- 
ing into  neglect  and  oblivion,  to  be  a  record  and  memento  of  events 
more  wild  and  alien  to  our  own  times,  than  a  Grecian  temple.* 
Amadis  de  Gaul,  and  the  Seven  Champions  of  Christendom,  with 
me  (honestly  speaking)  rank  as  contemporaries  with  Theseus, 
Pirithous,  and  the  heroes  of  the  fabulous  ages.  My  imagination 
will  stretch  no  farther  back  into  the  commencement  of  time  than 
the  first  traces  and  rude  dawn  of  civilization  and  mighty  enter- 
prize  in  either  case  ;  and  in  attempting  to  force  it  upwards  by 
the  scale  of  chronology,  it  only  recoils  upon  itself,  and  dwindles 
from  a  lofty  survey  of  "the  dark  rearward  and  abyss  of  time," 
into  a  poor  and  puny  calculation  of  insignificant  cyphers.  In 
like  manner,  I  cannot  go  back  to  any  time  more  remote  and 
dreary  than  that  recorded  in  Stow's  and  Hollingshed's  Chronicles, 
unless  I  turn  to  "  the  wars  of  old  Assaracus  and  Inachus  divine," 
and  the  gorgeous  events  of  Eastern  history,  where  the  distance 
of  place  may  be  said  to  add  to  the  length  of  time  and  weight  of 
thought.    That  is  old  (in  sentiment  and  poetry)  which  is  decayed, 

*  "The  Gothic  architecture,  though  not  so  ancient  as  the  Grecian,  is  more 
so  to  our  imagination,  with  which  the  artist  is  more  concerned  than  will:  abs"»- 
lute  truth." — Sir  Joshua  Reynolds's  Discourses,  vol.  ii.,  p   138. 

Till  I  met  with  this  remark  in  so  circumspect  and  guarded  a  writer  as  Sir 
Joshua,  I  was  afraid  of  being  charged  with  extravagance  in  some  of  the  above 
assertions.  Pereant  isti  qui  ante  nos  nostra  dixerunt.  It  is  thus  that  our  fa- 
vourite speculations  are  often  accounted  paradoxes  by  the  ignorant,  while  by 
the  learned  reader  they  are  set  down  as  plagiarisms. 


ON  ANTIGIUITY,  69 


shadowy,  imperfect,  out  of  date,  and  changed  from  what  it  was. 
That  of  which  we  have  a  distinct  idea,  which  comes  before  us 
entire  and  made  out  in  all  its  parts,  will  have  a  novel  appearance, 
however  old  in  reality  ;  nor  can  it  be  impressed  with  the  romantic 
and  superstitious  character  of  antiquity.  Those  times  that  we 
can  parallel  with  our  own  in  civilization  and  knowledge,  seem 
advanced  into  the  same  line  with  our  own  in  the  order  of  pro- 
gression. The  perfection  of  art  does  not  look  like  the  infancy  of 
things.  Or  those  times  are  prominent,  and,  as  it  were,  confront 
the  present  age,  that  are  raised  high  in  the  scale  of  polished  so- 
ciety, and  the  trophies  of  which  stand  out  above  the  low,  obscure, 
grovelling  level  of  barbarism  and  rusticity.  Thus,  Rome  and 
Athens  were  tw  cities  set  on  a  hill,  that  could  not  be  hid,  and 
that  everywhere  meet  the  retrospective  eye  of  history.  It  is  not 
the  full-grown,  articulated,  thoroughly  accomplished  periods  of 
the  world,  that  we  regard  with  the  pity  or  reverence  due  to  age  ; 
so  much  as  those  imperfect,  unformed,  uncertain  periods,  which 
seem  to  totter  on  the  verge  of  non-existence,  to  shrink  from  the 
grasp  of  our  feeble  imaginations,  as  they  crawl  out  of,  or  retire 
into  the  womb  of  time,  and  of  which  our  utmost*  assurance  is  to 
doubt  whether  they  ever  were  or  not ! 

To  give  some  other  instances  of  this  feeling,  taken  at  random. 
Whittington  and  his  Cat,  the  first  and  favourite  studies  of  my 
childhood,  are,  to  my  way  of  thinking,  as  old  and  reverend  per- 
sonages as  any  recorded  in  more  authentic  history.  It  must  have 
been  long  before  the  invention  of  triple  bob-majors,  that  Bow-bells 
rang  out  their  welcome  never-to-be-forgotten  peal,  hailing  him 
Thrice  Lord  Mayor  of  London.  Does  not  all  we  know  relating 
to  the  site  of  old  London-wall  and  the  first  stones  that  were  laid 
of  this  mighty  metropolis  seem  of  a  far  older  date  (hid  in  the  lap 
of  "  chaos  and  old  night")  than  the  splendid  and  imposing  details 
of  the  decline  and  fall  of  the  Roman  Empire  ? — Again,  the  early 
Italian  pictures  of  Cimabue,  Giotto,  and  Ghirlandaio  are  covered 
with  the  marks  of  unquestionable  antiquity ;  while  the  Greek 
statues,  done  a  thousand  years  before  them,  shine  in  glossy,  un- 
diminished splendour,  and  flourish  in  immortal  youth  and  beauty. 
The  latter  Grecian  Gods,  as  we  find  them  there  represented,  are 
to  ali  appearance  a  race  of  modern  fine  gentlemen  who  led  the 

5 — PART   II. 


60  TABLE  TALK. 


life  of  honour  with  their  favourite  mistresses  of  mortal  or  immortal 
mould — were  gallant,  graceful,  well-dressed,  and  well-spoken  ; 
whereas  the  Gothic  deities,  long  after  carved  in  horrid  wood  or 
misshapen  stone,  and  worshipped  in  dreary  waste  or  tangled  forest, 
belong,  in  the  mind's  heraldry,  to  almost  as  ancient  a  date  as  those 
elder  and  discarded  Gods  of  the  Pagan  mythology,  Ops,  and  Rhea 
and  old  Saturn — those  strange  anomalies  of  earth  and  cloudy 
spirit,  born  of  the  elements  and  conscious  will,  and  clothing  them 
selves  and  all  things  with  shape  and  formal  being.  The  Chroni- 
cle of  Brute,  in  Spenser's  Fairy  Queen,  has  a  tolerable  air  of 
antiquity  in  it ;  so  in  the  dramatic  line,  the  Ghost  of  one  of  the 
old  kings  of  Ormus,  introduced  as  Prologue  to  Fulke  Greville's 
play  of  Mustapha,  is  reasonably  far-fetched,  and  palpably  obscure. 
A  monk  in  the  Popish  Calendar,  or  even  in  the  Canterbury  Tales, 
is  a  more  questionable  and  out-of-the-way  personage  than  the 
Chiron  of  Achilles,  or  the  high-priest  in  Homer.  When  Chaucer, 
in  his  Troilus  and  Cressida,  makes  the  Trojan  hero  invoke  the 
absence  of  light,  in  these  two  lines — 

"  Why  proffer'st  thou  light  me  for  to  sell  1 
Go  sell  it  them  that  smalle  seles  grave  !;l 

he  is  guilty  of  an  anachronism  ;  or  at  least  I  much  doubt  whether 
there  was  such  a  profession  as  that  of  seal-engraver  in  the  Trojan 
war.  But  the  dimness  of  the  objects  and  the  quaintness  of  the 
allusion  throw  us  farther  back  into  the  night  of  time,  than  the 
golden  glittering  images  of  the  Iliad.  The  Travels  of  Anachar- 
sis  are  less  obsolete  at  this  time  of  day  than  Coryate's  Crudities 
or  Fuller's  Worthies.  "  Here  is  some  of  the  ancient  city,"  sair 
a  Roman,  taking  up  a  handful  of  dust  from  beneath  his  feet. 
The  ground  we  tread  on  is  as  old  as  the  creation,  though  it  does 
not  seem  so,  except  when  collected  into  gigantic  masses,  or  se- 
parated by  gloomy  solitudes  from  modern  uses  and  the  purposes 
of  common  life.  The  lone  Helvellyn  and  the  silent  Andes  are 
in  thought  coeval  with  the  globe  itself,  and  can  only  perish  witl 
it.  The  pyramids  of  Egypt  are  vast,  sublime,  old,  eternal ;  bu 
Stonehenge,  built  no  doubt  in  a  later  day,  satisfies  my  capacity 
for  the  sense  of  antiquity ;  it  seems  as  if  as  much  rain  had  driz- 
zled on  its  grey,  withered  head,  and  it  had  watched  out  as  many 


ON  ANTIQUITY.  61 


winter-nights ;  the  hand  of  time  is  upon  it,  and  it  has  sustained 
the  burden  of  years  upon  its  back,  a  wonder  and  a  ponderous 
riddle,  time  out  of  mind,  without  known  origin  or  use,  baffling 
fable  or  conjecture,  the  credulity  of  the  ignorant,  or  wise  men's 
search. 

"Thou  noblest  monument  of  Albion's  isle, 
Whether  by  Merlin's  aid,  from  Scythia's  shore 
To  Amber's  fatal  plain  Pendragon  bore, 
Huge  frame  of  giant  hands,  the  mighty  pile, 
T'entomb  his  Britons  slain  by  Hengist's  guile: 
Or  Druid  priests,  sprinkled  with  human  gore, 
Taught  'mid  thy  massy  maze  their  mystic  lore: 
Or  Danish  chiefs,  enrich'd  with  savage  spoil, 
To  victory's  idol  vast,  an  unhewn  shrine, 
Rear'd  the  rude  heap,  or  in  thy  hallow'd  round 
Repose  the  kings  of  Brutus'  genuine  line; 
Or  here  those  kings  in  solemn  state  were  crown'd ; 
Studious  to  trace  thy  wondrous  origin, 
We  muse  on  many  an  ancient  tale  renown'd." 

Warton. 

So  it  is  with  respect  to  ourselves  also.  It  is  the  sense  of  change 
or  decay  that  marks  the  difference  between  the  real  and  appa- 
rent progress  of  time,  both  in  the  events  of  our  own  lives  and  the 
history  of  the  world  we  live  in. 

Impressions  of  a  peculiar  and  accidental  nature,  of  which  few 
traces  are  left,  and  which  return  seldom  or  never,  fade  in  the  dis- 
tance, and  are  consigned  to  obscurity  ;  while  those  that  belong  to 
a  given  and  definite  class  are  kept  up,  and  assume  a  constant 
and  tangible  form  from  familiarity  and  habit.  That  which  was 
personal  to  myself  merely,  is  lost  and  confounded  with  other 
things,  like  a  drop  in  the  ocean  ;  it  was  but  a  point  at  first,  which 
by  its  nearness  affected  me,  and  by  its  removal  becomes  nothing ; 
while  circumstances  of  a  general  interest  and  abstract  importance 
present  the  same  distinct,  well-known  aspect  as  ever,  and  are 
durable  in  proportion  to  the  extent  of  their  influence.  Our  own 
idle  feelings  and  foolish  fancies  we  get  tired  or  grow  ashamed  of, 
as  their  novelty  wears  out;  "when  we  become  men,  we  put 
away  childish  things;"  but  the  impressions  we  derive  from  the 
exercise  of  our  higher  faculties  last  as  long  as  the  faculties  them- 


63  TABLE  TALK. 


selves.  They  have  nothing  to  do  with  time,  place,  and  circum- 
stance ;  and  are  of  universal  applicability  and  recurrence.  An 
incident  in  my  own  history,  that  delighted  or  tormented  me  very 
much  at  the  time,  I  may  have  long  since  blotted  from  my  memo- 
ry,  or  have  great  difficulty  in  calling  to  mind  after  a  certain  pe- 
riod ;  but  I  can  never  forget  the  first  time  of  my  seeing  Mrs.  Sid- 
dons  act,  which  appears  as  if  it  happened  yesterday  ;  and  the 
reason  is  because  it  has  been  something  for  me  to  think  of  ever 
since.  The  petty  and  the  personal,  that  which  appeals  to  our 
senses  and  our  appetites,  passes  away  with  the  occasion  that  gives 
it  birth.  The  grand  and  the  ideal,  that  which  appeals  to  the 
imagination,  can  only  perish  with  it,  and  remains  with  us,  unim- 
paired in  its  lofty,  abstraction,  from  youth  to  age,  as,  wherever 
we  go,  we  still  see  the  same  heavenly  bodies  shining  over  our 
heads !  An  old  familiar  face,  the  house  that  we  were  brought 
up  in,  sometimes  the  scenes  and  places  that  we  formerly  knew 
and  loved,  may  be  changed,  so  that  we  hardly  know  them  again ; 
the  characters  in  books,  the  faces  in  old  pictures,  the  propositions 
in  Euclid,  remain  the  same  as  when  they  were  first  pointed  out 
to  us.  There  is  a  continual  alternation  of  generation  and  decay 
in  individual  forms  and  feelings,  that  marks  the  progress  of  ex- 
istence, and  the  ceaseless  current  of  our  lives,  borne  along  with 
it ;  but  this  does  not  extend  to  our  love  of  art  or  knowledge  of 
nature.  It  seems  a  long  time  ago  since  some  of  the  first  events 
of  the  French  Revolution.;  the  prominent  characters  that  figured 
then  have  been  swept  away  and  succeeded  by  others ;  yet  I  cannot 
say  that  this  circumstance  has  in  any  way  abated  my  hatred  of 
tyranny,  or  reconciled  my  understanding  to  the  fashionable  doc- 
trine of  Divine  Right.  The  sight  of  an  old  newspaper  of  that 
date  would  give  one  a  fit  of  the  spleen  for  half  an  hour  ;  on  the 
other  hand,  it  must  be  confessed,  Mr.  Burke's  Reflections  on  this 
subject  are  as  fresh  and  dazzling  as  in  the  year  1791 ;  and  his 
Letter  to  a  Noble  Lord  is  even  now  as  interesting  as  Lord  John 
Russell's  Letter  to  Mr.  Wilberforce,  which  appeared  only  a  few 
weeks  back.  Ephemeral  politics  and  still-born  productions  are 
speedily  consigned  to  oblivion  ;  great  principles  and  original 
works  are  a  match  even  for  time  itself! 

We  may,  by  following  up  this  train  of  ideas,  give  some  ac- 


ON  ANTIQ.UITY.  63 


count  why  time  runs  faster  as  our  years  increase.  We  gain  by 
habit  and  experience  a  more  determinate  and  settled,  that  is,  a 
more  uniform  notion  of  things.  We  refer  each  particular  to  a 
given  standard.  Our  impressions  acquire  the  character  of  iden- 
tical propositions.  Our  most  striking  thoughts  are  turned  into 
truisms.  One  observation  is  like  another,  that  I  made  formerly. 
The  idea  I  have  of  a  certain  character  or  subject  is  just  the 
same  as  I  had  ten  years  ago.  I  have  learnt  nothing  since. 
There  is  no  alteration  perceptible,  no  advance  made  ;  so  that 
the  two  points  of  time  seem  to  touch  and  coincide.  I  get  from 
the  one  to  the  other  immediately  by  the  familiarity  of  habit,  by 
the  undistinguishing  process  of  abstraction.  What  I  can  recall  so 
easily  and  mechanically  does  not  seem  far  off;  it  is  completely 
within  my  reach,  and  consequently  close  to  me  in  apprehension. 
I  have  no  intricate  web  of  curious  speculation  to  wind  or  unwind, 
to  pass  from  one  state  of  feeling  and  opinion  to  the  other ;  no 
complicated  train  of  associations,  which  place  an  immeasurable 
barrier  between  my  knowledge  or  my  ignorance  at  different 
epochs.  There  is  no  contrast,  no  repugnance  to  widen  the  in- 
terval ;  no  new  sentiment  infused,  like  another  atmosphere,  to 
lengthen  the  perspective.  I  am  but  where  I  was.  I  see  the  ob- 
ject before  me  just  as  I  have  been  accustomed  to  do.  The  ideas 
are  written  down  in  the  brain  as  in  the  page  of  a  book — totidem 
verbis  et  Uteris.  The  mind  becomes  stereotyped.  By  not  going 
forward  to  explore  new  regions,  or  break  up  new  grounds,  we 
are  thrown  back  more  and  more  upon  our  past  acquisitions ;  and 
this  habitual  recurrence  increases  the  facility  and  indifference 
with  which  we  make  the  imaginary  transition.  By  thinking 
of  what  has  been,  we  change  places  with  ourselves,  and  trans- 
pose our  personal  identity  at  will ;  so  as  to  fix  the  slider  of  our 
imnrogressive  continuance  at  whatever  point  we  please.  This 
is  an  advantage  or  a  disadvantage,  which  we  have  not  in  youth. 
After  a  certain  period,  we  neither  lose  nor  gain,  neither  add  to 
nor  diminish  our  stock  ;  up  to  that  period  we  do  nothing  else  but 
lose  our  former  notions  and  being,  and  gain  a  new  one  every  in- 
stant. Our  life  is  then  like  the  birth  of  a  new  day  ;  the  dawn 
breaks  apace,  and  the  clouds  clear  away.  A  new  world  of 
ttiought  and  observation  is  opened  to  our  search.     A  year  makes 


64  TABLE  TALK. 


the  difference  of  an  age.  A  total  alteration  takes  place  in  our 
ideas,  feelings,  habits,  looks.  We  outgrow  ourselves.  A  sepa- 
rate set  of  objects,  of  the  existence  of  which  we  had  not  a  sus- 
picion, engages  and  occupies  our  whole  souls.  Shapes  and  col- 
ours of  all  varieties,  and  of  gorgeous  tint,  intercept  our  view  of 
what  we  were.  Life  thickens.  Time  glows  on  its  axle.  Ev- 
ery revolution  of  the  wheel  gives  an  unsettled  aspect  to  things. 
The  world  and  its  inhabitants  turn  round,  and  we  forget  one 
change  of  scene  in  another.  Art  woos  us ;  science  tempts  us 
into  her  intricate  labyrinths ;  each  step  presents  unlooked-for 
vistas,  and  closes  upon  us  our  backward  path.  Our  onward 
road  is  strange,  obscure,  and  infinite.  We  are  bewildered  in  a 
shadow,  lost  in  a  dream.  Our  perceptions  have  the  brightness 
and  the  indistinctness  of  a  trance.  Our  continuity  of  conscious- 
ness is  broken,  crumbles,  and  falls  in  pieces.  We  go  on, 
learning  and  forgetting  every  hour.  Our  feelings  are  chaotic, 
confused,  strange  to  each  other  and  to  ourselves.  Our  life  does 
not  hang  together,  but  straggling,  disjointed,  winds  its  slow  length 
along,  stretching  out  to  the  endless  future — unmindful  of  the  ig- 
norant past.  We  seem  many  beings  in  one,  and  cast  the  slough 
of  our  existence  daily.  The  birth  of  knowledge  is  the  genera- 
tion of  time.  The  unfolding  of  our  experience  is  long  and  volu- 
minous ;  nor  do  we  all  at  once  recover  from  our  surprise  at  the 
number  of  objects  that  distract  our  attention.  Every  new  study 
is  a  separate,  arduous,  and  insurmountable  undertaking.  We 
are  lost  in  wonder  at  the  magnitude,  the  difficulty,  and  the  inter- 
minable prospect.  We  spell  out  the  first  years  of  our  existence, 
like  learning  a  lesson  for  the  first  time,  where  every  advance  is 
slow,  doubtful,  interesting  :  afterwards  we  rehearse  our  parts  by 
rote,  and  are  hardly  conscious  of  the  meaning.  A  very  short 
period  (from  fifteen  to  twenty-five  or  thirty)  includes  the  whole 
map  and  table  of  contents  of  human  life.  From  that  time  we 
may  be  said  to  live  our  lives  over  again,  to  repeat  ourselves — 
the  same  thoughts  return  at  stated  intervals,  like  the  tunes  of  a 
barrel-organ ;  and  the  volume  of  the  universe  is  no  more  than  a 
form  of  words  and  book  of  reference. 

Time  in  general  is  supposed  to  move  faster  or  slower,  as  we 
attend  more  or  less,  to  the  succession  of  our  ideas,  in  ih*.  samo 


ON  ANTIQ.UITY.  65 


manner  as  distance  is  increased  or  lessened  by  the  greater  or  less 
variety  of  intervening  objects.  There  is,  however,  a  difference 
in  this  respect.  Suspense,  where  the  mind  is  engrossed  with  one 
idea,  and  kept  from  amusing  itself  with  any  other,  is  not  only  thu 
most  uncomfortable,  but  the  most  tiresome  of  all  things.  The 
fixing  our  attention  on  a  single  point  makes  us  more  sensible  of 
the  delay,  and  hangs  an  additional  weight  of  fretful  impatience 
on  every  moment  of  expectation.  People  in  country-places,  with- 
out employment  or  artificial  resources,  complain  that  time  lies 
heavy  on  their  hands.  Its  leaden  pace  is  not  occasioned  by  the 
quantity  of  thought,  but  by  vacancy,  and  the  continual,  languid 
craving  after  excitement.  It  wants  spirit  and  vivacity  to  give  it 
motion.  We  are  on  the  watch  to  see  how  time  goes  ;  and  it  ap- 
pears to  lag  behind,  because,  in  the  absence  of  objects  to  arrest 
our  immediate  attention,  we  are  always  getting  on  before  it.  We 
do  not  see  its  divisions,  but  we  feel  the  galling  pressure  of  each 
creeping  sand  that  measures  out  our  hours.  Again,  a  rapid  suc- 
cession of  external  objects  and  amusements,  which  leave  no  room 
for  reflection,  and  where  one  gratification  is  forgotten  in  the  next, 
makes  time  pass  quickly,  as  well  as  delightfully.  We  do  not 
perceive  an  extent  of  surface,  but  only  a  succession  of  points. 
We  are  whirled  swiftly  along  by  the  hand  of  dissipation,  but 
cannot  stay  to  look  behind  us.  On  the  contrary,  change  of  scene, 
travelling  through  a  foreign  country,  or  the  meeting  with  a  va- 
riety of  striking  adventures  that  lay  hold  of  the  imagination,  and 
continue  to  haunt  it  in  a  waking  dream,  will  make  days  seem 
weeks.  From  the  crowd  of  events,  the  number  of  distinct  points 
of  view,  brought  into  a  small  compass,  we  seem  to  have  passed 
through  a  great  length  of  time,  when  it  is  no  such  thing.  In 
traversing  a  flat,  barren  country,  the  monotony  of  our  ideas 
fatigues,  and  makes  the  way  longer ;  whereas,  if  the  prospect  is 
diversified  and  picturesque,  we  get  over  the  miles  without  count- 
ing them.  In  painting  or  writing,  hours  are  melted  almost  into 
minutes:  the  mind,  absorbed  in  the  eagerness  of  its  pursuit,  for- 
gets the  time  necessary  to  accomplish  it ;  and,  indeed,  the  clock 
often  finds  us  employed  on  the  same  thought  or  part  of  a  picture 
that  occupied  us  when  it  struck  last.  It  seems  then  there  are  several 
other  circumstances,  besides  the  number  and  distinctness  of  our 


66  TABLE  TALK. 


ideas,  to  be  taken  into  the  account  in  the  measure  of  time,  or  in 
considering  "  whom  time  ambles  withal,  whom  time  gallops  withal, 
and  whom  he  stands  still  withal."*  Time  wears  away  slowly 
with  a  man  in  solitary  confinement ;  not  from  the  number  or  va- 
riety of  his  ideas,  but  from  their  weary  sameness,  fretting  like 
drops  of  water.  The  imagination  may  distinguish  the  lapse  of 
time  by  the  brilliant  variety  of  its  tints,  and  the  many  striking 
shapes  it  assumes ;  the  heart  feels  it  by  the  weight  of  sadness, 
and  "  grim-visaged,  comfortless  despair  !" 

I  will  conclude  this  subject  with  remarking,  that  the  fancied 
shortness  of  life  is  aided  by  the  apprehension  of  a  future  state. 
The  constantly  directing  our  hopes  and  fears  to  a  higher  state  of 
being  beyond  the  present,  necessarily  brings  death  habitually 
before  us,  and  defines  the  narrow  limits  within  which  we  hold  our 
frail  existence,  as  mountains  bound  the  horizon,  and  unavoidably 
draw  our  attention  to  it.  This  may  be  one  reason  among  others 
why  the  fear  of  death  was  a  less  prominent  feature  in  ancient 
times  than  it  is  at  present :  because  the  thoughts  of  it,  and  of  a 
future  state,  were  less  frequently  impressed  on  the  mind  by  re- 
ligion and  morality.  The  greater  progress  of  civilization  and 
security  in  modern  times  has  also  considerably  to  do  with  our 

*  "  Rosalind.  Time  travels  in  divers  paces  with  divers  persons :  HI  tell  you 
who  time  ambles  withal,  who  time  trots  withal,  who  time  gallops  withal,  and 
who  he  stands  still  withal. 

Orlando.     I  prythee,  who  doth  he  trot  withal  1 

Ros.  Marry,  he  trots  hard  with  a  young  maid  between  the  contract  of  her 
marriage  and  the  day  it  is  solemnized  :  if  the  interim  be  but  a  se'nnight,  time's 
pace  is  so  hard  that  it  seems  the  length  of  seven  years. 

Orl.     Who  ambles  time  withal  1 

Ros.  With  a  priest  that  lacks  Latin,  and  a  rich  man  that  hath  not  the  gout ; 
for  the  one  sleeps  easily,  because  he  cannot  study;  and  the  other  lives  merrily 
because  he  feels  no  pain ;  the  one  lacking  the  burden  of  lean  and  wasteful 
learning;  the  other  knowing  no  burden  of  heavy  tedious  penury.  These  time 
ambles  with. 

Orl.     Who  doth  he  gallop  withal  1 

Ros.  With  a  thief  to  the  gallows ;  for  though  he  go  as  softly  as  foot  can 
fall,  he  thinks  himself  too  soon  there. 

Orl.     Who  stays  it  withal  1 

Ros.  With  lawyers  in  the  vacation  ;  for  they  sleep  between  term  and  term, 
and  then  they  perceive  not  how  time  moves."— As  You  Like  It,  Act  III., 
Scene  II. 


ON  ANTiaUITY.  67 


practical  effeminacy :  for  though  the  old  Pagans  were  not  bound 
to  think  of  death  as  a  religious  duty,  they  never  could  foresee 
when  they  should  be  compelled  to  submit  to  it,  as  a  natural  ne- 
cessity, or  accident  of  war,  &c.  They  viewed  death,  therefore, 
with  an  eye  of  speculative  indifference  and  practical  resolution. 
That  the  idea  of  annihilation  did  not  impress  them  with  the  same 
horror  and  repugnance  as  it  does  the  modern  believer,  or  even 
infidel,  is  easily  accounted  for  (though  a  writer  in  the  Edinburgh 
Review  thinks  the  question  insoluble*)  from  this  plain  reason, 
viz.  that  not  being  taught  from  childhood  a  belief  in  a  future  state 
of  existence  as  a  part  of  the  creed  of  their  countiy,  the  having 

*  "  On  the  other  point,  namely,  the  dark  and  sceptical  spirit  prevalent  through 
the  vrorks  of  this  poet  (Lord  Byron)  we  shall  not  now  utter  all  that  we  feel,  but 
rather  direct  the  notice  of  our  readers  to  it  as  a  singular  phenomenon  in  the 
poetry  of  the  age.  Whoever  has  studied  the  spirit  of  Greek  and  Roman  litera- 
ture, must  have  been  struck  with  the  comparative  disregard  and  indifference, 
wherewith  the  thinking  men  ^f  these  exquisitely  polished  nations  contemplated 
those  subjects  of  darkness  and  mystery  which  afford  at  some  period  or  other 
of  his  life  so  much  disquiet — we  had  almost  said  so  much  agony,  to  the  mind 
of  every  reflecting  modern.  It  is  difficult  to  account  for  this  in  any  very  satis- 
factory, and  we  suspect  altogether  impossible  to  do  so  in  any  strictly  logical, 
manner.  In  reading  the  works  of  Plato  and  his  interpreter  Cicero,  we  find  the 
germs  of  all  the  doubts  and  anxieties  to  which  we  have  alluded,  so  far  as  these 
are  connected  with  the  workings  of  our  reason.  The  singularity  is,  that  those 
clouds  of  darkness,  which  hang  over  the  intellect,  do  not  appear,  so  far  as  we  can 
perceive,  to  have  thrown  at  any  time  any  very  alarming  shade  upon  the  feel- 
ings or  temper  of  the  ancient  sceptic.  We  should  think  a  very  great  deal  of  this 
was  owing  to  the  brilliancy  and  activity  of  his  southern  fancy.  The  lighter 
spirits  of  antiquity,  like  the  more  mercurial  of  our  moderns,  sought  refuge  in  mere 
gaiete  du  cceur  and  derision.  The  graver  poets  and  philosophers — and  poetry 
and  philosophy  were  in  those  days  seldom  disunited — built  up  some  airy  and 
beautiful  system  of  mysticism,  each  following  his  own  devices,  and  suiting  the 
erection  to  his  own  peculiarities  of  hope  and  inclination ;  and  this  being  once 
accomplished,  the  mind  appears  to  have  felt  quite  satisfied  with  what  it  had 
done,  and  to  have  reposed  amidst  the  splendours  of  its  sand-built  fantastic  edi- 
fice, with  as  much  security  as  if  it  had  been  grooved  and  rivetted  into  the  rock 
of  ages.  The  mere  exercise  of  ingenuity  in  devising  a  system  furnished  con- 
solation to  its  creators,  or  improvers.  Lucretius  is  a  striking  example  of  all 
this ;  and  it  may  be  averred  that  down  to  the  time  of  Claudian,  who  lived  ir*  the 
fourth  century  of  our  aera,  in  no  classical  writer  of  antiquity  do  there  occur  any 
traces  of  what  moderns  understand  by  the  restlessness  and  discomfort  of  un- 
certainty, as  to  the  government  jf  the  world  and  the  future  destinies  of  man." — 
Edinburgh  Review,  voL  xxx.,  p.  9(5,  97  ;  Article,  Ckilde  Harold,  Canto  4. 


SB  TABLE  TALK. 


this  belief  called  inti  question  or  struck  from  under  their  feet  did 
not  cause  the  same  uneasiness  or  confusion  of  mind  in  them  as  it 
does  in  us.  He  who  has  never  been  led  to  expect  the  reversion 
of  an  estate,  does  not  severely  feel  the  loss  of  it :  for  '*,  is  tho  in- 
dulgence of  hope  that  embitters  disappointment. 


ON  THE  CONDUCT  OF  LIFE. 


ESSAY  XXII. 

On  the  Conduct  of  Life ;   or,  Advice  to  a  Schoolboy. 

My  dear  little  fellow  : 

You  are  now  going  to  settle  at  school,  and  may  consider  this 
as  your  first  entrance  into  the  world.  As  my  health  is  so  indif- 
ferent, and  I  may  not  be  with  you  long,  I  wish  to  leave  you  some 
advice  (the  best  I  can)  for  your  conduct  in  life,  both  that  it  may 
be  of  use  to  you,  and  as  something  to  remember  me  by.  I  may 
at  least  be  able  to  caution  you  against  my  own  errors,  if  nothing 
else. 

As  we  went  along  to  your  new  place  of  destination,  you  often 
repeated  that  "  you  durst  say  they  were  a  set  of  stupid,  disa- 
greeable people,"  meaning  the  people  at  the  school.  You  were 
to  blame  in  this.  It  is  a  good  old  rule  to  hope  for  the  best.  Al- 
ways, my  dear,  believe  things  to  be  right,  till  you  find  them  the 
contrary ;  and  even  then,  instead  of  irritating  yourself  against 
them,  endeavour  to  put  up  with  them  as  well  as  you  can,  if  you 
cannot  alter  them.  You  said,  "  You  were  sure  you  would  not 
like  the  school  where  you  were  going."  This  was  wrong. 
What  you  meant  was  that  you  did  not  like  to  leave  home.  But 
you  could  not  tell  whether  you  should  like  the  school  or  not,  till 
you  had  given  it  a  trial.  Otherwise,  your  saying  that  you 
should  not  like  it  was  determining  that  you  would  not  like  it. 
Never  anticipate  evils ;  or,  because  you  cannot  have  things  ex- 
actly as  you  wish,  make  them  out  worse  than  they  are,  through 
mere  spite  and  wilfulness. 

You  seemed  at  first  to  take  no  notice  of  your  school-fellows, 
or  rather  to  set  yourself  against  them,  because  they  were  stran- 
gers to  you.  They  knew  as  little  of  you  as  you  did  of  them ; 
so  that  this  would  have  been  a  reason  for  their  keeping  aloof 
from   you  as  well,  which  you  would  have  felt  as  a  hardship. 

12 


70  TABLE  TALK. 


Learr.  never  to  conceive  a  prejudice  against  others,  because  you 
know  nothing  of  them.  Jt  is  bad  reasoning,  and  makes  enemies 
of  half  the  world.  Do  not  think  ill  of  them,  till  they  behave 
ill  to  you ;  and  then  strive  to  avoid  the  faults  which  you  see  in 
them.  This  will  disarm  their  hostility  sooner  than  pique  or  re- 
sentment or  complaint. 

I  thought  you  were  disposed  to  criticize  the  dress  of  some  of 
the  boys  as  not  so  good  as  your  own.  Never  despise  any  one 
for  any  thing  that  he  cannot  help — least  of  all,  for  his  poverty. 
I  would  wish  you  to  keep  up  appearances  yourself  as  a  defence 
against  the  idle  sneers  of  the  world,  but  I  would  not  have  you 
value  yourself  upon  them.  I  hope  you  will  neither  be  the  dupe 
nor  victim  of  vulgar  prejudices.  Instead  of  saying  above — 
"  Never  despise  any  one  for  any  thing  that  he  cannot  help" — 1 
might  have  said,  "  Never  despise  any  one  at  all ;"  for  contempt 
implies  a  triumph  over  and  pleasure  in  the  ill  of  another.  It 
means  that  you  are  glad  and  congratulate  yourself  on  their  fail- 
ings or  misfortunes.  The  sense  of  inferiority  in  others,  without 
this  indirect  appeal  to  our  self-love,  is  a  painful  feeling,  and  not 
an  exulting  one. 

You  complain  since,  that  the  boys  laugh  at  you  and  do  not 
care  about  you,  and  that  you  are  not  treated  as  you  were  at  home. 
My  dear,  that  is  one  chief  reason  for  your  being  sent  to  school, 
to  inure  you  betimes  to  the  unavoidable  rubs  aad  uncertain  re- 
ception you  may  meet  with  in  life.  You  cannot  always  be  with 
me,  and  perhaps  it  is  as  well  that  you  cannot.  But  you  must 
not  expect  others  to  show  the  same  concern  about  you  as  I 
should.  You  have  hitherto  been  a  spoiled  child,  and  have  been 
used  to  have  your  own  way  a  good  deal,  both  in  the  house  and 
among  your  playfellows,  with  whom  you  were  too  fond  of  being 
a  leader :  but  you  have  good  nature  and  good  sense,  and  will 
get  the  better  of  this  in  time.  You  have  now  got  among  oth&r 
boys  who  are  your  equals,  or  bigger  and  stronger  than  yourself, 
and  who  have  something  else  to  attend  to  besides  humouring 
your  whims  and  fancies,  and  you  feel  this  as  a  repulse  or  piece 
of  injustice.  But  the  first  lesson  to  learn  is  that  there  are  other 
people  in  the  world  besides  yourself.  There  are  a  number  of 
boys  in  the  school  where  you  are,  whose  amusements  and  pur 


ON  THE  CONDUCT  OF  LIFE.  11 


suits  (whatever  they  may  be)  are  and  ought  to  be  of  as  much 
consequence  to  them  as  yours  can  be  to  you,  and  to  which  there- 
fore you  must  give  way  in  your  turn.  The  more  airs  of  childish 
self-importance  you  give  yourself,  you  will  only  expose  yourself 
to  be  the  more  thwarted  and  laughed  at.  True  equality  is  the 
only  true  morality  or  true  wisdom.  Remember  always  that  you 
are  but  one  among  others,  and  you  can  hardly  mistake  your 
place  in  society.  In  your  father's  house,  you  might  do  as  you 
pleased ;  in  the  world,  you  will  find  competitors  at  every  turn. 
You  are  not  born  a  king's  son,  to  destroy  or  dictate  to  millions: 
you  can  only  expect  to  share  their  fate,  or  settle  your  differences 
amicably  with  them.  You  already  find  it  so  at  school ;  and  I 
wish  you  to  be  reconciled  to  your  situation  as  soon,  and  with 
as  little  pain  as  you  can. 

It  was  my  misfortune  (perhaps)  to  be  bred  up  among  Dissent- 
ers, who  look  with  too  jaundiced  an  eye  at  others,  and  set  too 
high  a  value  on  their  own  peculiar  pretensions.  From  being 
proscribed  themselves,  they  learn  to  proscribe  others  ;  and  come 
in  the  end  to  reduce  all  integrity  of  principle  and  soundness  of 
opinion  within  the  pale  of  their  own  little  communion.  Those 
who  were  out  of  it,  and  did  not  belong  to  the  class  of  Rational 
Dissenters,  I  was  led  erroneously  to  look  upon  as  hardly  deserving 
the  name  of  rational  beings.  Being  thus  satisfied  as  to  the  se- 
lect few  who  are  '*  the  salt  of  the  earth,"  it  is  easy  to  persuade 
ourselves  that  we  are  at  the  head  of  them,  and  to  fancy  ourselves 
of  more  importance  in  the  scale  of  true  desert  than  all  the  rest 
of  the  world  put  together,  who  do  not  interpret  a  certain  text  of 
Scripture  in  the  manner  that  we  have  been  taught  to  do.  You 
will  (from  the  difference  of  education)  be  free  from  this  bigotry 
and  will,  I  hope,  avoid  every  thing  akin  to  the  same  exclusive 
and  narrow-minded  spirit.  Think  that  the  minds  of  men  are 
various  as  their  faces — that  the  modes  and  employments  of  life 
are  numberless  as  they  are  necessary — that  there  is  more  than 
one  class  of  merit — that  though  others  may  be  wrong  in  some 
things,  they  are  not  so  in  all — and  that  countless  races  of  men 
have  been  born,  have  lived  and  died,  without  ever  hearing  of  any 
one  of  those  points  in  which  you  take  a  just  pride  and  pleasure 
—and  you  will  not  err  on  the  side  of  that  spiritual  pride  or  in- 

12 


78  TABLE  TALK 


telleetual  coxcombry  which  has  been  so  often  the  bane  of  the 
studious  and  learned ! 

I  observe  you  have  got  a  way  of  speaking  of  your  school- 
fellows as  "  that  Hoare,  that  Harris,"  and  so  on,  as  if  you  meant 
to  mark  them  out  for  particular  reprobation,  or  did  not  think  them 
good  enough  for  you.  It  is  a  bad  habit  to  speak  disrespectfully 
of  others ;  for  it  will  lead  you  to  think  and  feel  uncharitably  to- 
wards them.  Ill  names  beget  ill  blood.  Even  where  there  may 
be  some  repeated  trifling  provocation,  it  is  better  to  be  courteous, 
mild,  and  forbearing,  than  captious,  impatient,  and  fretful.  The 
faults  of  others  too  often  arise  out  of  our  own  ill  temper ;  or 
though  they  should  be  real,  we  shall  not  mend  them,  by  exas- 
perating ourselves  against  them.  Treat  your  playmates,  as 
Hamlet  advises  Polonius  to  treat  the  players,  "  according  to  your 
own  dignity,  rather  than  their  deserts."  If  you  fly  out  at  every 
thing  in  them  that  you  disapprove  or  think  done  on  purpose  to 
annoy  you,  you  lie  constantly  at  the  mercy  of  their  caprice, 
rudeness,  or  ill-nature.     You  should  be  more  your  own  master. 

Do  not  begin  to  quarrel  with  the  world  too  soon :  for,  bad  as 
it  may  be,  it  is  the  best  we  have  to  live  in — here.  If  railing 
would  have  made  it  better,  it  would  have  been  reformed  long 
ago :  but  as  this  is  not  to  be  hoped  for  at  present,  the  best  way 
is  to  slide  through  it  as  contentedly  and  innocently  as  we  may. 
The  worst  fault  it  has,  is  want  of  charity :  and  calling  knave 
and  fool  at  every  turn  will  not  cure  this  failing.  Consider  (as  a 
matter  of  vanity)  that  if  there  were  not  so  many  knaves  and 
fools  as  we  find,  the  wise  and  honest  would  not  be  those  rare 
and  shining  characters  that  they  are  allowed  to  be ;  and  (as  a 
matter  of  philosophy)  that  if  the  world  be  really  incorrigible  in 
this  respect,  it  is  a  reflection  to  make  one  sad,  not  angry.  We 
may  laugh  or  weep  at  the  madness  of  mankind :  we  have  no 
right  to  vilify  them,  for  our  own  sakes  or  theirs.  Misanthropy 
is  not  the  disgust  of  the  mind  at  human  nature,  but  with  itself; 
or  it  is  laying  its  own  exaggerated  vices  and  foul  blots  at  the 
door  of  others  !  Do  not,  however,  mistake  what  I  have  here 
said.  I  would  not  have  you,  when  you  grow  up,  adopt  the  low 
and  sordid  fashion  of  palliating  existing  abuses  or  of  Dutting  the 
best  face  upon  the  worst  things.     I  only  mean  that  mdiscrimi- 


ON   THE  CONDUCT   OF  LIFE. 


oate,  unqualified  satire  can  do  little  good,  and  that  those  who  in- 
dulge in  the  most  revolting  speculations  on  human  nature,  do  not 
.hemselves  always  set  the  fairest  examples,  or  strive  to  prevent 
its  lower  degradation.  They  seem  rather  willing  to  reduce'it  to 
their  theoretical  standard.  For  the  rest,  the  very  outcry  that  is 
made  (if  sincere)  shows  that  things  cannot  be  quite  so  bad  as 
they  are  represented.  The  abstract  hatred  and  scorn  of  vice 
implies  the  capacity  for  virtue :  the  impatience  expressed  at  the 
most  striking  instances  of  deformity  proves  the  innate  idea  and 
love  of  beauty  in  the  human  mind.  The  best  antidote  I  can  re- 
commend to  you  hereafter  against  the  disheartening  effect  of 
such  writings  as  those  of  Rochefoucault,  Mandeville,  and  others, 
will  be  to  look  at  the  pictures  of  Raphael  and  Correggio.  You 
need  not  be  altogether  ashamed,  my  dear  little  boy,  of  belonging 
to  a  species  which  could  produce  such  faces  as  those  ;  nor  de- 
spair of  doing  something  worthy  of  a  laudable  ambition,  when 
you  see  what  such  hands  have  wrought !  You  will,  perhaps, 
one  day  have  reason  to  thank  me  for  this  advice. 

As  to  your  studies  and  school  exercises,  I  wish  you  to  learn 
Latin,  French,  and  dancing.  I  would  insist  upon  the  last  more 
particularly,  both  because  it  is  more  likely  to  be  neglected,  and 
because  it  is  of  the  greatest  consequence  to  your  success  in  life. 
Every  thing  almost  depends  upon  first  impressions ;  and  these 
depend  (besides  person,  which  is  not  in  our  power,)  upon  two 
things,  dress  and  address,  which  every  one  may  command  with 
proper  attention.  These  are  the  small  coin  in  the  intercourse  of 
life,  which  are  continually  in  request ;  and  perhaps  you  will  find 
at  the  year's  end,  or  towards  the  close  of  life,  that  the  daily  in- 
sults, coldness,  or  contempt  to  which  you  have  been  exposed  by 
a  neglect  of  such  superficial  recommendations,  are  hardly  atoned 
for  by  the  few  proofs  of  esteem  or  admiration  which  your  inte- 
grity or  talents  have  been  able  to  extort  in  the  course  of  it.  When 
we  habitually  disregard  those  things  which  we  know  will  ensure 
the  favourable  opinion  of  others,  it  shows  we  set  that  opinion  at 
defiance,  or  consider  ourselves  above  it,  which  no  one  ever  did 
•with  impunity.  An  inattention  to  our  own  persons  implies  a  dis- 
respect to  others,  and  nlay  often  be  traced  no  less  to  a  want  of 
good  nature  than  of  good  sense.     The  old  maxim — Desire  t< 


74  TABLE  TALK. 


phase,  and  you  will  infallibly  please — explains  the  whole  matter, 
If  there  is  a  tendency  to  vanity  and  affectation  on  this  side  of 
the  question,  there  is  an  equal  alloy  of  pride  and  obstinacy  on 
the  opposite  one. — Slovenliness  may  at  any  time  be  cured  by  an 
effort  of  resolution,  but  a  graceful  carriage  requires  an  early 
habit,  and,  in  most  cases,  the  aid  of  the  dancing-master.  I  would 
not  have  you,  from  not  knowing  how  to  enter  a  room  properly, 
stumble  at  the  very  threshhold  in  the  good  graces  of  those  on 
whom  it  is  possible  the  fate  of  your  future  life  may  depend. 
Nothing  creates  a  greater  prejudice  against  any  one  than  awk- 
wardness. A  person  who  is  confused  in  manner  and  gesture 
seems  to  have  done  something  wrong,  or  as  if  he  was  conscious 
of  no  one  qualification  to  build  a  confidence  in  himself  upon. 
On  the  other  hand,  openness,  freedom,  self-possession,  set  others 
at  ease  with  you  by  showing  that  you  are  on  good  terms  with 
yourself.  Grace  in  women  gains  the  affections  sooner,  and  se- 
cures them  longer,  than  any  thing  else — it  is  an  outward  and 
visible  sign  of  an  inward  harmony  of  soul — as  the  want  of  it  in 
men,  as  if  the  mind  and  body  equally  hitched  in  difficulties  and 
were  distracted  with  doubts,  is  the  greatest  impediment  in  the 
career  of  gallantry  and  road  to  the  female  heart.  Another 
thing  I  would  caution  you  against  is  not  to  pore  over  your  books 
till  you  are  bent  almost  double — a  habit  you  will  never  be  able 
to  get  the  better  of,  and  which  you  will  find  of  serious  ill  conse- 
quence. A  stoop  in  the  shoulders  sinks  a  man  in  public  and  in 
private  estimation.  You  are  at  present  straight  enough,  and 
you  walk  with  boldness  and  spirit.  Do  nothing  to  take  away 
the  use  of  your  limbs,  or  the  spring  and  elasticity  of  your 
muscles.  As  to  all  worldly  advantages,  it  is  to  the  full  of  as 
much  importance  that  your  deportment  should  be  erect  and 
manly  as  your  actions. 

You  will  naturally  find  out  all  this  and  fall  into  it,  if  your  at- 
tention is  drawn  out  sufficiently  to  what  is  passing  around  you  ; 
and  this  will  be  the  case,  unless  you  are  absorbed  too  much  in 
books  and  those  sedentary  studies, 

"  Which  waste  the  marrow,  and  consume  the  brain." 
You  are,  I  think,  too  fond  of  reading,  as  it  is.     As  one  means 


ON  THE  CONDUCT  OF  LIFE.  75 

of  avoiding  excess  in  this  way,  I  would  wish  you  to  make  it  a 
rule,  never  to  read  at  meal-times,  nor  in  company  when  there  is 
any  (even  the  most  trivial)  conversation  going  on,  nor  ever  to  let 
your  eagerness  to  learn  encroach  upon  your  play-hours.  Books 
are  but  one  inlet  of  knowledge  ;  and  the  pores  of  the  mind,  like 
those  of  the  body,  should  be  left  open  to  all  impressions.  I  ap- 
plied too  close  to  my  studies  soon  after  I  was  of  your  age,  and 
hurt  myself  irreparably  by  it.  Whatever  may  be  the  value  of 
learning,  health  and  good  spirits  are  of  more. 

I  would  have  you,  as  I  said,  make  yourself  master  of  French, 
because  you  may  find  it  of  use  in  the  commerce  of  life  ;  and  1 
would  have  you  learn  Latin,  partly  because  I  learnt  it  myself, 
and  I  would  not  have  you  without  any  of  the  advantages  or 
sources  of  knowledge  that  I  possessed — it  would  be  a  bar  of  sepa- 
ration between  us — and  secondly,  because  there  is  an  atmosphere 
round  this  sort  of  classical  ground,  to  which  that  of  actual  life  is 
gross  and  vulgar.  Shut  out  from  this  garden  of  early  sweetness, 
we  may  well  exclaim — 

"  How  shall  we  part  and  wander  down 

Into  a  lower  world,  to  this  obscure 

And  wild.     How  shall  we  breathe  in  other  air  • 

Less  pure,  accustom'd  to  immortal  fruits  V 

I  do  not  think  the  Classics  so  indispensable  to  the  cultivation  of 
your  intellect  as  on  another  account,  which  I  have  explained 
elsewhere,  and  you  will  have  no  objection  to  turn  with  me  to  the 
passage. 

"  The  study  of  the  Classics  is  less  to  be  regarded  as  an  exer- 
cise of  the  intellect,  than  as  a  discipline  of  humanity.  The  pecu- 
liar advantage  of  this  mode  of  education  consists  not  so  much  in 
strengthening  the  understanding,  as  in  softening  and  refining  the 
taste.  It  gives  men  liberal  views  ;  it  accustoms  the  mind  to  take 
an  interest  in  things  foreign  to  itself;  to  love  virtue  for  its  own 
sake  ;  to  prefer  fame  to  life,  and  glory  to  riches  ;  and  to  fix  our 
thoughts  on  the  remote  and  permanent,  instead  of  narrow  and 
fleeting  objects.  It  teaches  us  to  believe  mat  there  is  something 
really  great  and  excellent  in  the  world,  surviving  all  the  shocks 
of  accident  and  fluctuations  of  opinion,  and  raises  us  above  that 

6 — PART   II. 


76  TABLE  TALK. 


low  and  servile  fear,  which  bows  only  to  present  power  and  up. 
start  authority.  Rome  and  Athens  filled  a  place  in  the  history 
of  mankind,  which  can  never  be  occupied  again.  They  were  two 
cities  set  on  a  hill,  which  could  not  be  hid  ;  all  eyes  have  seen 
them,  and  their  light  shines  like  a  mighty  sea-mark  into  the  abyss 
of  time. 

"  Still  green  with  bays  each  ancient  altar  stands, 
Above  the  reach  of  sacrilegious  hands ; 
Secure  from  flames,  from  envy's  fiercer  rage, 
Destructive  war,  and  ail-involving  age. 
Hail,  bards  triumphant,  born  in  happier  days, 
Immortal  heirs  of  universal  praise ! 
Whose  honours  with  increase  of  ages  grow, 
As  streams  roll  down,  enlarging  as  they  flow!" 

It  is  this  feeling  more  than  any  thing  else  which  produces  a 
marked  difference  between  the  study  of  the  ancient  and  modern 
languages,  and  which,  by  the  weight  and  importance  of  the  con- 
sequences attached  to  the  former,  stamps  every  word  with  a 
monumental  firmness.  By  conversing  with  the  mighty  dead,  we 
imbibe  sentiment  with  knowledge.  We  become  strongly  attached 
tq  those  who  can  no  longer  either  hurt  or  serve  us,  except  through 
the  influence  which  they  exert  over  the  mind.  We  feel  the  pre- 
sence of  that  power  which  gives  immortality  to  human  thoughts 
and  actions,  and  catch  the  flame  of  enthusiasm  from  all  nations 
and  ages." 

Because,  however,  you  have  learnt  Latin  and  Greek,  and  can 
speak  a  different  language,  do  not  fancy  yourself  of  a  different 
order  of  beings  from  those  you  ordinarily  converse  with.  They 
perhaps  know  and  can  do  more  things  than  you,  though  you  have 
learnt  a  greater  variety  of  names  to  express  the  same  thing  by. 
The  great  object  indeed  of  these  studies  is  to  be  "  a  cure  for  a 
narrow  and  selfish  spirit,"  and  to  carry  the  mind  out  of  its  petty 
and  local  prejudices  to  the  idea  of  a  more  general  humanity.  Do 
not  fancy,  because  you  are  intimate  with  Homer  and  Virgil,  that 
your  neighbours  who  can  never  attain  the  same  posthumous  fame 
are  to  be  despised,  like  those  impudent  valets  who  live  in  noble 
families  and  look  down  upon  every  one  else.  Though  you  are 
master  of  Cicero's  Orations,  think  it  possible  for  a  cobler  at  a  stall 


ON  THE  CONDUCT  OF  LIFE.  77 

lo  be  more  eloquent  than  you.  "  But  you  are  a  scholar,  and  he 
is  not."  Well,  then,  you  have  that  advantage  over  him,  but  it 
does  not  follow  that  you  are  to  have  every  other.  Look  at  the 
heads  of  the  celebrated  poets  and  philosophers  of  antiquity  in  the 
collection  at  Wilton,  and  you  will  say  they  answer  to  their  works  : 
but  you  will  find  others  in  the  same  collection  whose  names  have 
hardly  come  down  to  us,  that  are  equally  fine,  and  cast  in  the 
same  classic  mould.  Do  you  imagine  that  all  the  thoughts,  ge- 
nius, and  capacity  of  those  old  and  mighty  nations  are  contained 
in  a  few  odd  volumes,  to  be  thumbed  by  school-boys  ?  This  re- 
flection is  not  meant  to  lessen  your  admiration  of  the  great  names 
to  which  you  will  be  accustomed  to  look  up,  but  to  direct  it  to 
that  solid  mass  of  intellect  and  power,  of  which  they  were  the 
most  shining  ornaments.  I  would  wish  you  to  excel  in  this  sort 
of  learning  and  to  take  a  pleasure  in  it,  because  it  is  the  path 
that  has  been  chosen  for  you :  but  do  not  suppose  that  others  do 
not  excel  equally  in  their  line  of  study  or  exercise  of  skill,  or  that 
there  is  but  one  mode  of  excellence  in  art  or  nature.  You  have 
got  on  vastly  beyond  the  point  at  which  you  set  out ;  but  others 
have  been  getting  on  as  well  as  you  in  the  same  or  other  ways, 
and  have  kept  pace  with  you.  What,  then,  you  may  ask,  is  the 
use  of  all  the  pains  you  have  taken,  if  it  gives  you  no  superiority 
over  mankind  in  general  ?  It  is  this — You  have  reaped  all  the 
benefit  of  improvement  and  knowledge  yourself;  and  farther,  if 
you  had  not  moved  forwards,  you  would  by  this  time  have  been 
left  behind.  Envy  no  one,  disparage  no  one,  think  yourself 
above  no  one.  Their  demerits  will  not  piece  out  your  deficien- 
cies ;  nor  is  it  a  waste  of  time  and  labour  for  you  to  cultivate 
your  own  talents,  because  you  cannot  bespeak  a  monopoly  of  all 
advantages.  You  are  more  learned  than  many  of  your  acquaint- 
ance who  may  be  more  active,  healthy,  witty,  successful  in  busi- 
ness, or  expert  in  some  elegant  or  useful  art  than  you  ;  but  you 
have  no  reason  to  complain,  if  you  have  attained  the  object  of 
your  ambition.  Or  if  you  should  not  be  able  to  compass  this  from 
a  want  of  genius  or  parts,  yet  learn,  my  child,  to  be  contented 
with  a  mediocrity  of  acquirements.  You  may  still  be  respectable 
in  your  conduct,  and  enjoy  a  tranquil  obscurity,  with  more  friends 
and  fewer  enemies  than  you  might  otherwise  have  had. 

12* 


78  TABLE  TALK. 


There  is  one  almost  certain  drawback  on  a  course  of  scholastic 
study,  that  it  unfits  men  for  active  life.  The  ideal  is  always  at 
variance  with  the  practical.  The  habit  of  fixing  the  attention  on 
the  imaginary  and  abstracted  deprives  the  mind  equally  of  energy 
and  fortitude.  By  indulging  our  imaginations  on  fictions  and 
chimeras,  where  we  have  it  all  our  own  way,  and  are  led  on  only 
by  the  pleasure  of  the  prospect,  we  grow  fastidious,  effeminate, 
lapped  in  idle  luxury,  impatient  of  contradiction,  and  unable  to 
sustain  the  shock  of  real  adversity,  when  it  comes  ;  as  by  being 
taken  up  with  abstract  reasoning  or  remote  events  in  which  we 
are  merely  passive  spectators,  we  have  no  resources  to  provide 
against  it,  no  readiness,  or  expedients  for  the  occasion,  or  spirit 
to  use  them,  even  if  they  occur.  We  must  think  again  before 
we  determine,  and  thus  the  opportunity  for  action  is  lost.  While 
we  are  considering  the  very  best  possible  mode  of  gaining  an  ob- 
ject, we  find  that  it  has  slipped  through  our  fingers,  or  that  others 
have  laid  rude,  fearless  hands  upon  it.  The  youthful  tyro  reluct- 
antly discovers  that  the  ways  of  the  world  are  not  his  ways,  nor 
their  thoughts  his  thoughts.  Perhaps  the  old  monastic  institutions 
were  not  in  this  respect  unwise,  which  carried  on  to  the  end  of 
life  the  secluded  habits  and  romantic  associations  with  which  it 
began,  and  which  created  a  privileged  world  for  the  inhabitants, 
distinct  from  the  common  world  of  men  and  women.  You  will 
bring  with  you  from  your  books  and  solitary  reveries  a  wrong 
measure  of  men  and  things,  unless  you  correct  it  by  careful  ex- 
perience and  mixed  observation.  You  will  raise  your  standard 
of  character  as  much  too  high  at  first  as  from  disappointed  expec- 
tation it  will  sink  too  low  afterwards.  The  best  qualifier  of  this 
theoretical  mania,  and  of  the  dreams  of  poets  and  moralists,  (who 
both  treat  of  things  as  they  ought  to  he  and  not  as  they  are,)  is  in 
one  sense  to  be  found  in  some  of  our  own  popular  writers,  such 
as  our  Novelists  and  periodical  Essayists.  But  you  had,  after 
all,  better  wait  and  see  what  things  are  than  try  to  anticipate  the 
results.  You  know  more  of  a  road  by  having  travelled  it  than 
by  all  the  conjectures  and  descriptions  in  the  world.  You  will 
find  the  business  of  life  conducted  on  a  much  more  varied  and 
individual  scale  than  you  would  expect.  People  will  be  con- 
cerned about  a  thousand  things  that  you  have  no  idea  of,  and  will 


ON  THE  CONDUCT  OF  LIFE.  19 

be  utterly  indifferent  to  what  you  feel  the  greatest  interest  in. 
You  will  find  good  and  evil,  folly  and  discretion,  more  mingled, 
and  the  shades  of  character  running  more  into  each  other  tha  l 
they  do  in  the  ethical  charts.  No  one  is  equally  wise  or  guardc  d 
at  all  points,  and  it  is  seldom  that  any  one  is  quite  a  fx>l.  Do 
not  be  surprised,  when  you  go  out  into  the  world,  to  find  men  talk 
exceedingly  well  on  different  subjects,  who  do  not  derive  their  in- 
formation immediately  from  books.  In  the  first  place,  the  light 
of  books  is  diffused  very  much  abroad  in  the  world  in  conversa- 
tion and  at  second-hand  ;  and  besides,  common  sense  is  not  a 
monopoly,  and  experience  and  observation  are  sources  of  informa- 
tion open  to  the  man  of  the  world  as  well  as  to  the  retired  student. 
If  you  know  more  of  the  outline  and  principles,  he  knows  more 
of  the  details  and  "  practique  part  of  life."  A  man  may  discuss 
the  adventures  of  a  campaign  in  which  he  was  engaged  very 
agreeably  without  having  read  the  Retreat  of  the  Ten  Thousand, 
or  give  a  singular  account  of  the  method  of  drying  teas  in  China 
without  being  a  profound  chemist.  It  is  the  vice  of  scholars  to 
suppose  that  there  is  no  knowledge  in  the  world  but  that  of  books. 
Do  you  avoid  it,  I  conjure  you  ;  and  thereby  save  yourself  the 
pain  and  mortification  that  must  ensue  from  finding  out  your  mis- 
take continually ! 

Gravity  is  one  great  ingredient  in  the  conduct  of  life,  and  per- 
naps  a  certain  share  of  it  is  hardly  to  be  dispensed  with.  Few 
people  can  afford  to  be  quite  unaffected.  At  any  rate,  do  not  put 
your  worst  qualities  foremost.  Do  not  seek  to  distinguish  your- 
self by  being  ridiculous ;  nor  entertain  that  miserable  ambition 
to  be  the  sport  and  butt  of  the  company.  By  aiming  at  a  certain 
standard  of  behaviour  or  intellect,  you  will  at  least  show  your 
taste  and  value  for  what  is  excellent.  There  are  those  who  blurt 
out  their  good  things  with  so  little  heed  of  what  they  are  about 
that  no  one  thinks  any  thing  of  them  ;  as  others  by  keeping 
their  folly  to  themselves  gain  the  reputation  of  wisdom.  Do  not, 
however,  affect  to  speak  only  in  oracles,  or  to  deal  in  bon-mots  : 
condescend  to  the  level  of  the  company,  and  be  free  and  accessible 
to  all  persons.  Express  whatever  occurs  to  you,  that  cannot  offend 
others  or  hurt  yourself.  Keep  some  opinions  to  yourself.  Say 
what  you  please  of  others,  but  never  repeat  what  you  hear  said 


SO  TABLE  TALK. 


of  them  to  themselves.  If  you  have  nothing  better  to  offer,  laugh 
with  the  witty,  assent  to  the  wise  :  they  will  not  think  the  worse 
of  you  for  it.  Listen  to  information  on  subjects  you  are  unac- 
quainted with,  instead  of  always  striving  to  lead  the  conversation 
to  some  favourite  one  of  your  own.  By  the  last  method  you  will 
shine,  but  will  not  improve.  I  am  ashamed  myself  ever  to  open 
my  lips  on  any  question  I  have  ever  written  upon.  It  is  much 
more  difficult  to  be  able  to  converse  on  an  equality  with  a  number 
of  persons  in  turn,  than  to  soar  above  their  heads,  and  excite  the 
stupid  gaze  of  all  companies  by  bestriding  some  senseless  topic  of 
your  own  and  confounding  the  understandings  of  those  who  are 
ignorant  of  it.  Be  not  too  fond  of  argument.  Indeed,  by  going 
much  into  company  (which  I  do  not,  however,  wish  you  to  do) 
\ou  will  be  weaned  from  this  practice,  if  you  set  out  with  it. 
Rather  suggest  what  remarks  may  have  occurred  to  you  on  a 
subject  than  aim  at  dictating  your  opinions  to  others  or  at  de- 
fending yourself  at  all  points.  You  will  learn  more  by  agree- 
ing in  the  main  with  others  and  entering  into  their  trains  of 
thinking,  than  by  contradicting  and  urging  them  to  extremities. 
Avoid  singularity  of  opinion  as  well  as  of  every  thing  else. 
Sound  conclusions  come  with  practical  knowledge,  rather  than 
with  speculative  refinements :  in  what  we  really  understand,  we 
reason  but  little.  Long-winded  disputes  fill  up  the  place  of  com- 
mon sense  and  candid  inquiry.  Do  not  imagine  that  you  will 
make  people  friends  by  showing  your  superiority  over  them :  it 
is  what  they  will  neither  admit  nor  forgive,  unless  you  have  a 
high  and  acknowledged  reputation  beforehand,  which  renders 
this  sort  of  petty  vanity  more  inexcusable.  Seek  to  gain  the 
good-will  of  others,  rather  than  to  extort  their  applause ;  and  to 
this  end  be  neither  too  tenacious  of  your  own  claims,  nor  in- 
clined to  press  too  hard  on  their  weaknesses. 

Do  not  affect  the  society  of  your  inferiors  in  rank,  nor  court 
that  of  the  great.  There  can  be  no  real  sympathy  in  either  case. 
The  first  will  consider  you  as  a  restraint  upon  them,  and  the  last 
as  an  intruder  or  upon  sufferance.  It  is  not  a  desirable  distinction 
to  be  admitted  into  company  as  a  man  of  talents.  You  are  a  mark 
for  invidious  observation.  If  you  say  nothing,  or  mercy  behave 
with  common  propriety  and  simplicity,  you  seem  to  have  no  busi 


ON  THE  CONDUCT  OF  LIFE.  31 

ness  there.  If  you  make  a  studied  display  of  yourself,  it  is  arro- 
gating a  consequence  you  have  no  right  to.  If  you  are  contented 
to  pass  as  an  indifferent  person,  they  despise  you ;  if  you  distinguish 
yourself,  and  show  more  knowledge,  wit,  or  taste  than  they  do, 
they  hate  you  for  it.  You  have  no  alternative.  I  would  rather 
be  asked  out  to  sing  than  to  talk.  Every  one  does  not  pretend  to 
a  fine  voice,  but  every  one  fancies  he  has  as  mucn  understanding 
as  another.  Indeed  the  secret  of  this  sort  of  intercourse  has  beer 
pretty  well  found  out.  Literary  men  are  seldom  invited  to  the 
tables  of  the  great ;  they  send  for  players  and  musicians,  as  they 
keep  monkeys  and  parrots ! 

I  would  not,  however,  have  you  run  away  with  a  notion  that 
the  rich  are  knaves  or  that  lords  are  fools.  They  are  for  what 
I  know  as  honest  and  as  wise  as  other  people.  But  it  is  a  trick 
of  our  self-love,  supposing  that  another  has  the  decided  advantage 
of  us  in  one  way,  to  strike  a  balance  by  taking  it  for  granted 
(as  a  moral  antithesis)  that  he  must  be  as  much  beneath  us  in 
those  qualities  on  which  we  plume  ourselves,  and  which  we  would 
appropriate  almost  entirely  to  our  own  use.  It  is  hard  indeed  if 
others  are  raised  above  us  not  only  by  the  gifts  of  fortune,  but  of 
understanding  too.  It  is  not  to  be  credited.  People  have  an  un- 
willingness to  admit  that  the  House  of  Lords  can  be  equal  in 
talent  to  the  House  of  Commons.  So  in  the  other  sex,  if  a  woman 
is  handsome,  she  is  an  idiot,  or  no  better  than  she  should  be  :  in 
ours,  if  a  man  is  worth  a  million  of  money,  he  is  a  miser,  a  fellow 
that  cannot  spell  his  own  name,  or  a  poor  creature  in  some  way, 
to  bring  him  to  our  level.  This  is  malice,  and  not  truth.  Be- 
lieve all  the  good  you  can  of  every  one.  Do  not  measure  others 
by  yourself.  If  they  have  advantages  which  you  have  not,  let 
your  liberality  keep  pace  with  their  good  fortune.  Envy  no  one, 
and  you  need  envy  no  one.  If  you  have  but  the  magnanimity 
to  allow  merit  wherever  you  see  it — understanding  in  a  lord  or 
wit  in  a  cobler — this  temper  of  mind  will  stand  you  instead  of 
many  accomplishments.  Think  no  man  too  happy.  Raphael 
died  young  :  Milton  had  the  misfortune  to  be  blind.  If  any  one 
is  vain  or  proud,  it  is  from  folly  or  ignorance.  Those  who  pique 
themselves  excessively  on  some  one  thing,  have  but  that  one 
thing  to  pique  themselves  upon,  as  languages,  mechanics,  fcc.     I 


82  TABL^   TALK. 


do  not  say  that  this  is  not  an  enviable  delusion  where  it  is  not 
liable  to  be  disturbed  ;  but  at  present  knowledge  is  too  much  dif- 
fused and  pretensions  come  too  much  into  collision  for  this  to  be 
long  the  case  ;  and  it  is  better  not  to  form  such  a  prejudice  at 
first  than  to  have  it  to  undo  all  the  rest  of  one's  life.  If  you  learn 
any  two  things,  though  they  may  put  you  out  of  conceit  one  with 
the  other,  they  will  effectually  cure  you  of  any  conceit  you  might 
have  of  yourself,  by  showing  the  variety  and  scope  there  is  in  the 
Human  mind  beyond  the  limits  you  had  set  to  it. 

You  were  convinced  the  first  day  that  you  could  not  learn 
Latin,  which  now  you  find  easy.  Be  taught  from  this,  not  to 
think  other  obstacles  insurmountable,  that  you  may  meet  with  in 
the  course  of  your  life,  though  they  seem  so  at  first  sight. 

Attend  above  all  things  to  your  health  ;  or  rather,  do  nothing 
wilfully  to  impair  it.  Use  exercise,  abstinence,  and  regular 
hours.  Drink  water  when  you  are  alone,  and  wine  or  very  little 
spirits  in  company.  It  is  the  last  that  are  ruinous  by  leading  to  un- 
limited excess.  There  is  not  the  same  headlong  impetus  in  wine. 
But  one  glass  of  brandy  and  water  makes  you  want  another,  that 
othei  makes  you  want  a  third,  and  so  on,  in  an  increased  propor- 
tion. Therefore  no  one  can  stop  midway  who  does  not  possess  the 
resolution  to  abstain  altogether ;  for  the  inclination  is  sharpened 
with  its  indulgence.  Never  gamble.  Or  if  you  play  for  any 
thing,  never  do  so  for  what  will  give  you  uneasiness  the  next  day. 
Be  not  precise  in  these  matters :  but  do  not  pass  certain  limits, 
which  it  is  difficult  to  recover.  Do  nothing  in  the  irritation  of  the 
moment,  but  take  time  to  reflect.  Because  you  have  done  one 
foolish  thing,  do  not  do  another ;  nor  throw  away  your  health  or 
reputation  or  comfort,  to  thwart  impertinent  advice.  Avoid  a 
spirit  of  contradiction,  both  in  words  and  actions.  Do  not  aim  at 
what  is  beyond  your  reach,  but  at  what  is  within  it.  Indulge  in 
calm  and  pleasing  pursuits,  rather  than  violent  excitements ;  and 
learn  to  conquer  your  own  will,  instead  of  striving  to  obtain  the 
mastery  of  that  of  others. 

With  respect  to  your  friends,  I  would  wish  you  to  choose  them 
neither  from  caprice  nor  accident,  and  to  adhere  to  them  as  long 
as  you  can.     Do  not  take  a  surfeit  of  friendship,  through  over 
sanguine  enthusiasm,  nor  expect  it  to  last  for  ever.     Always  speak 


ON  THE  CONDUCT  OF  LIFE.  83 

well  of  those  with  whom  you  have  once  been  intimate,  or  take 
some  part  of  the  censure  you  bestow  on  them  to  yourself.  Never 
quarrel  with  tried  friends,  or  those  whom  you  wish  to  continue 
such.  Wounds  of  this  kind  are  sure  to  open  again.  When  once 
the  prejudice  is  removed  that  sheathes  defects,  familiarity  only 
causes  jealousy  and  distrust.  Do  not  keep  on  with  a  mockery  of 
friendship  after  the  substance  is  gone — but  part,  while  you  can 
part  friends.  Bury  the  carcase  of  friendship :  it  is  not  worth 
embalming. 

As  to  the  books  you  will  have  to  read  by  choice  or  for  amuse- 
ment, the  best  are  the  commonest.  The  names  of  many  of  them 
are  already  familiar  to  you.  Read  them  as  you  grow  up  with 
all  the  satisfaction  in  your  power,  and  make  much  of  them.  It 
is  perhaps  the  greatest  pleasure  you  will  have  in  life,  the  one 
you  will  think  of  longest,  and  repent  of  least.  If  my  life  had 
been  more  full  of  calamity  than  it  has  been  (much  more  than 
I  hope  yours  will  be)  I  would  live  it  over  again,  my  poor  little 
boy,  to  have  read  the  books  I  did  in  my  youth. 

In  politics  I  wish  you  to  be  an  honest  man,  but  no  brawler. 
Hate  injustice  and  falsehood  for  your  own  sake.  Be  neither  a 
martyr,  nor  a  sycophant.  Wish  well  to  the  world  without  ex- 
pecting to  see  it  much  better  than  it  is;  and  do  not  gratify  the 
enemies  of  liberty  by  putting  yourself  at  their  mercy,  if  it  can 
be  avoided  with  honour. 

If  you  ever  marry,  I  would  wish  you  to  marry  the  woman  you 
like.  Do  not  be  guided  by  the  recommendation  of  friends.  No- 
thing will  atone  for  or  overcome  an  original  distaste.  It  will  only 
increase  from  intimacy ;  and  if  you  are  to  live  separate,  it  is  bet- 
ter not  to  come  together.  There  is  no  use  in  dragging  a  chain 
through  life,  unless  it  binds  one  to  the  object  we  love.  Choose 
a  mistress  from  among  your  equals.  You  will  be  able  to  under- 
stand her  character  better,  and  she  will  be  more  likely  to  under- 
stand yours.  Those  in  an  inferior  station  to  yourself  will  doubt 
vour  good  intentions,  and  misapprehend  your  plainest  expres- 
sions. All  that  you  swear  is  to  them  a  riddle  or  downright  non 
sense.  You  cannot  by  possibility  translate  your  thoughts  into 
their  dialect.  They  will  be  ignorant  of  the  meaning  of  half  you 
say.  and  laugh  at  the   rest.     As   mistresses,  they  will  have  uo 


84  TABLE  TALK. 


sympathy  with  you  ;  and  as  wives,  you  can  havo  none  with  them. 
But  they  will  do  all  they  can  to  thwart  you,  and  to  retrieve  them- 
selves in  their  own  opinion  by  trick  and  low  cunning.  No  wo- 
man ever  married  into  a  family  above  herself  that  did  not  try  to 
make  all  the  mischief  she  could  in  it. — Be  not  in  haste  to  marry, 
nor  to  engage  your  affections,  where  there  is  no  probability  of  a 
return.  Do  not  fancy  every  woman  you  see  the  heroine  of  a 
romance,  a  Sophia  Western,  a  Clarissa,  or  a  Julia  ;  and  yourself 
the  potential  hero  of  it,  Tom  Jones,  Lovelace,  or  St.  Preux. 
Avoid  this  error  as  you  would  shrink  back  from  a  precipice. 
All  your  fine  sentiments  and  romantic  notions  will  (of  them, 
selves)  make  no  more  impression  on  one  of  these  delicate  crea- 
tures, than  on  a  piece  of  marble.  Their  soft  bosoms  are  steel  to 
your  amorous  refinements,  if  you  have  no  other  pretensions.  It 
is  not  what  you  think  of  them  that  determines  their  choice,  but 
what  they  think  of  you.  Endeavour,  if  you  would  escape  lin- 
gering torments  and  the  gnawing  of  the  worm  that  dies  not,  to 
find  out  this,  and  to  abide  by  the  issue.  We  trifle  with,  make 
sport  of,  and  despise  those  who  are  attached  to  us,  and  follow 
those  that  fly  from  us.  "  We  hunt  the  wind,  we  worship  a  statue, 
cry  aloud  to  the  desert."  Do  you,  my  dear  boy,  stop  short  in 
this  career,  if  you  find  yourself  setting  out  in  it,  and  make  up 
your  mind  to  this,  that  if  a  woman  does  not  like  you  of  her  own 
accord,  that  is,  from  involuntary  impressions,  nothing  you  can 
say  or  do  or  suffer  for  her  sake  will  make  her,  but  will  set  her 
the  more  against  you.     So  the  song  goes — 

"  Quit,  quit  for  shame;  this  will  not  move: 

If  of  herself  she  will  not  love, 
Nothing  will  make  her,  the  devil  take  her !" 

There  is  but  one  other  point  on  which  I  meant  to  speak  to  you, 
and  that  is  the  choice  of  a  profession.  This,  probably,  had  bet- 
ter be  left  to  time  or  accident  or  your  own  inclination.  You 
have  a  very  fine  e"ar,  but  I  have  somehow  a  prejudice  against 
men-singers,  and  indeed  against  the  stage  altogether.  It  is  an 
uncertain  and  ungrateful  soil.  All  professions  are  bad  that  de 
pend  on  reputation,  which  is  "  as  often  got  without  merit  as  lost 
without  deserving."     Yet  1   cannot  easilv  reconcile  myself  to 


ON  THE  CONDUCT   OF  LIFE.  Sf> 

your  being  a  slave  to  business,  and  I  sball  hardly  be  able  to 
leave  you  an  independence.  A  situation  in  a  public  office  is  se. 
cure,  but  laborious  and  mechanical,  and  without  the  two  great 
springs  of  life,  Hope  and  Fear.  Perhaps,  however,  it  might  en- 
sure  you  a  competence,  and  leave  you  leisure  for  some  other 
favourite  amusement  or  pursuit.  I  have  said  all  reputation  is 
hazardous,  hard  to  win,  harder  to  keep.  Many  never  attain  a 
glimpse  of  what  they  have  all  their  lives  been  looking  for,  and 
others  survive  a  passing  shadow  of  it.  Yet  if  I  were  to  name 
one  pursuit  rather  than  another,  I  should  wish  you  to  be  a  good 
painter,  if  such  a  thing  could  be  hoped.  I  have  failed  in  this 
myself,  and  should  wish  you  to  be  able  to  do  what  1  have  not — 
o  paint  like  Claude  or  Rembrandt  or  Guido  or  Vandyke,  if  it 
Were  possible.  Artists,  I  think,  who  have  succeeded  in  their 
chief  object,  live  to  be  old,  and  are  agreeable  old  men.  Their 
minds  keep  alive  to  the  last.  Cosway's  spirits  never  flagged  till 
after  ninety,  and  Nollekens,  though  blind,  passed  all  his  morn- 
ings in  giving  directions  about  some  group  or  bust  in  his  work- 
shop.    You  have  seen  Mr. ,  that  delightful  specimen  of  the 

last  age.  With  what  avidity  he  takes  up  his  pencil,  or  lays  it 
down  again  to  talk  of  numberless  things  !  His  eye  has  not  lost 
its  lustre,  nor  "  paled  its  ineffectual  fire."  His  body  is  a 
shadow :  he  himself  is  a  pure  spirit.  There  is  a  kind  of  im- 
mortality about  this  sort  of  ideal  and  visionary  existence  that 
dallies  with  Fate  and  baffles  the  grim  monster,  Death.  If  I 
thought  you  could  make  as  clever  an  artist  and  arrive  at  such 

an  agreeable  old  age  as  Mr. ,  I  should  declare  at  once  for 

your  devoting  yourself  to  this  enchanting  profession  i  and  in  that 
reliance,  should  feel  less  regret  at  some  of  my  own  disappoint 
ments,  and  little  anxiety  on  ycur  account ! 


66  TABLE  TALK. 


ESSAY  XXIII. 

The  Indian  Jugglers. 

Coming  forward  and  seating  himself  on  the  ground  in  his  white 
dress  and  tightened  turban,  the  chief  of  the  Indian  Jugglers  be- 
gins with  tossing  up  two  brass  balls,  which  is  what  any  of  us 
could  do,  and  concludes  with  keeping  up  four  at  the  same  time, 
which  is  what  none  of  us  could  do  to  save  our  lives,  nor  if  we 
were  to  take  our  whole  lives  to  do  it  in.  Is  it  then  a  trifling 
power  we  see  at  work,  or  is  it  not  something  next  to  miraculous  1 
It  is  the  utmost  stretch  of  human  ingenuity,  which  nothing  but 
the  bending  the  faculties  of  body  and  mind  to  it  from  the  tender 
est  infancy  with  incessant,  ever-anxious  application,  up  to  man- 
hood, can  accomplish  or  make  even  a  slight  approach  to.  Man,, 
thou  art  a  wonderful  animal,  and  thy  ways  past  finding  out ! 
Thou  canst  do  strange  things,  but  thou  turnest  them  to  little  ac- 
count !  To  conceive  of  this  effort  of  extraordinary  dexterity 
distracts  the  imagination  and  makes  admiration  breathless.  Yet 
it  costs  nothing  to  the  performer,  any  more  than  if  it  were  a  mere 
mechanical  deception  with  which  he  had  nothing  to  do  but  to 
watch  and  laugh  at  the  astonishment  of  the  spectators.  A  single 
error  of  a  hair's  breadth,  of  the  smallest  conceivable  portion  of 
time,  would  be  fatal :  the  precision  of  the  movements  must  be 
like  a  mathematical  truth,  their  rapidity  is  like  lightning.  To 
catch  four  balls  in  succession  in  less  than  a  second  of  time,  and 
deliver  them  back  so  as  to  return  with  seeming  consciousness  to 
the  hand  again,  to  make  them  revolve  round  him  at  certain  in- 
tervals, like  the  planets  in  their  spheres,  to  make  them  chase  one 
another  like  sparkles  of  fire,  or  shoot  up  like  flowers  or  meteors, 
to  throw  them  behind  his  back  and  twine  them  round  his  neck 
like  ribbons  or  like  serpents,  U:  do  what  appears  an  impossibility, 
and  to  do  it  with  all  the  ease,  the  grace,  the  carelessness  ima- 


THE  INDIAN  JUGGLERS  87 


ginable,  to  laugh  at,  to  play  with  the  glittering  mockeries,  to  follow 
them  with  his  eye  as  if  he  could  fascinate  them  with  its  lambent 
fire  or  as  if  he  had  only  to  see  that  they  kept  time  with  the  mu- 
sic on  the  stage — there  is  something  in  all  this  which  he  who 
does  not  admire  may  be  quite  sure  he  never  really  admired  any 
thing  in  the  whole  course  of  his  life.  It  is  skill  surmounting  dif- 
ficulty, and  beauty  triumphing  over  skill.  It  seems  as  if  the 
difficulty  once  mastered  naturally  resolved  itself  into  ease  and 
grace,  and  as  if  to  be  overcome  at  all,  it  must  be  overcome  with- 
out an  effort.  The  smallest  awkwardness  or  want  of  pliancy  or 
self-possession  would  stop  the  whole  process.  It  is  the  work  of 
witchcraft,  and  yet  sport  for  children.  Some  of  the  other  feats 
are  quite  as  curious  and  wonderful,  such  as  the  balancing  the 
artificial  tree  and  shooting  a  bird  from  each  branch  through  a 
quill ;  though  none  of  them  have  the  elegance  or  facility  of  the 
keeping  up  of  the  brass  balls.  You  are  in  pain  for  the  result 
and  glad  when  the  experiment  is  over ;  they  are  not  accompanied 
with  the  same  unmixed,  unchecked  delight  as  the  former ;  and 
I  would  not  give  much  to  be  merely  astonished  without  being 
pleased  at  the  same  time.  As  to  the  swallowing  of  the  sword, 
the  police  ought  to  interfere  to  prevent  it.  When  I  saw  the  In- 
dian Juggler  do  the  same  things  before,  his  feet  were  bare,  and 
he  had  large  rings  on  the  toes,  which  kept  turning  round  all  the 
time  of  the  performance,  as  if  they  moved  of  themselves.  The 
hearing  a  speech  in  Parliament,  drawled  or  stammered  out  by 
the  Honourable  Member  or  the  Noble  Lord,  the  ringing  the 
changes  on  their  common-places,  which  any  one  could  repeat 
after  them  as  well  as  they,  stirs  me  not  a  jot,  shakes  not  my  good 
opinion  of  myself:  but  the  seeing  the  Indian  Jugglers  does.  It 
makes  me  ashamed  of  myself.  I  ask  what  there  is  that  I  can 
do  as  well  as  this  ?  Nothing.  What  have  I  been  doing  all  my 
life  ?  Have  I  been  idle,  or  have  I  nothing  to  show  for  all  my  la- 
bour and  pains  ?  Or  have  I  passed  my  time  in  pouring  words 
like  water  into  empty  sieves,  rolling  a  stone  up  a  hill  and  then 
down  again,  trying  to  prove  an  argument  in  the  teeth  cf  facts,  and 
looking  for  causes  in  the  dark,  and  not  finding  them  ?  Is  there 
no  one  thing  in  which  I  can  challenge  competition,  that  I  can 
bring  as  ah  instance  of  exact  perfection,  in  which  others  cancel 


88  TABLE  TALK. 


find  a  flaw  ?  The  utmost  I  can  pretend  to  is  to  write  a  descrip. 
uon  of  what  this  fellow  can  do.  I  can  write  a  book  :  so  can 
many  others  who  have  not  even  learned  to  spell.  What  abor- 
tions are  these  Essays  !  What  errors,  what  ill-pieced  transitions, 
what  crooked  reasons,  what  lame  conclusions  !  How  little  is 
made  out,  and  that  little  how  ill !  Yet  they  are  the  best  I  can 
do.  I  endeavour  to  recollect  all  I  have  ever  observed  or  thought 
upon  a  subject,  and  to  express  it  as  nearly  as  I  can.  Instead  of 
writing  on  four  subjects  at  a  time,  it  is  as  much  as  I  can  manag« 
to  keep  the  thread  of  one  discourse  clear  and  unentangled.  I 
have  also  time  on  my  hands  to  correct  my  opinions,  and  polish 
my  periods  :  but  the  one  I  cannot,  and  the  other  I  will  not  do.  I 
am  fond  of  arguing  :  yet  with  a  good  deal  of  pains  and  practice 
it  is  often  as  much  as  I  can  do  to  beat  my  man  though  he  may 
be  a  very  indifferent  hand!  A  common  fencer  would  disarm  hia 
adversary  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  unless  he  were  a  professor 
like  himself.  A  stroke  of  wit  will  sometimes  produce  this  effect, 
but  there  is  no  such  power  or  superiority  in  sense  or  reasoning. 
There  is  no  complete  mastery  of  execution  to  be  shown  there  : 
and  h  :«i  hardly  know  the  professor  from  the  impudent  pretender 
or  the  mere  clown.* 

I  have  always  had  this  feeling  of  the  inefficacy  and  slow 
progress  of  intellectual  compared  with  mechanical  excellence, 
and  it  has  always  made  me  somewhat  dissatisfied.  It  is  a  great 
many  years  since  I  saw  Richer,  the  famous  rope-dancer,  perform 
at  Sadler's  Wells.  He  was  matchless  in  his  art,  and  added  to 
his  extraordinary  skill  exquisite  ease,  and  unaffected,  natural 
grace.     I  was  at  that  time  employed  in  copying  a  half-length 

*  The  celebrated  Peter  Pindar  (Dr.  Wolcot)  first  discovered  and  brought 
out  the  talents  of  the  late  Mr.  Opie,  the  painter.  He  was  a  poor  Cornish  boy, 
and  was  out  at  work  in  the  fields,  when  the  poet  went  in  search  of  him. 
"  Well,  my  lad,  can  you  go  and  bring  me  your  very  best  picture  ?"  The  other 
flew  like  lightning,  and  soon  came  back  with  what  he  considered  as  his  mas- 
ter-piece. The  stranger  looked  at  it,  and  the  young  artist,  after  waiting  for 
some  time  without  his  giving  any  opinion,  at  length  exclaimed  eagerly,  "  Well, 
what  do  you  think  of  it?" — "  Think  of  it?"  said  Wolcot,  "  why,  I  think  you 
ought  to  be  ashamed  of  it — that  you  who  might  do  so  well,  do  no  better!" 
The  same  answer  would  have  applied  to  this  artist's  latest  performances,  that 
bad  been  suggests!  by  one  of  his  earliest  efforts. 


THE  INDIAN  JUGGLERS.  89 

picture  of  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds's  ;  and  it  put  me  out  of  conceit 
with  it.  How  ill  this  part  was  made  out  in  the  drawing  !  How 
heavy,  how  slovenly  this  other  was  painted  !  I  could  not  help 
saying  to  myself,  "  If  the  rope-dancer  had  performed  his  task  in 
this  manner,  leaving  so  many  gaps  and  botches  in  his  work,  he 
would  have  broke  his  neck  long  ago ;  I  should  never  have  seen 
that  vigorous  elasticity  of  nerve  and  precision  of  movement !" — 
Is  it  then  so  easy  an  undertaking  (comparatively)  to  dance  on 
a  tight-rope  ?  Let  any  one,  who  thinks  so,  get  up  and  try.  There 
is  the  thing.  It  is  that  which  at  first  we  cannot  do  at  all,  which 
in  the  end  is  done  to  such  perfection.  To  account  for  this  in 
some  degree,  I  might  observe  that  mechanical  dexterity  is  con- 
fined to  doing  some  one  particular  thing,  which  you  can  repeat 
as  often  as  you  please,  in  which  you  know  whether  you  succeed 
or  fail,  and  where  the  point  of  perfection  consists  in  succeeding 
in  a  given  undertaking.  In  mechanical  efforts,  you  improve  by 
perpetual  practice,  and  you  do  so  infallibly,  because  the  object 
to  be  attained  is  not  a  matter  of  taste  or  fancy  or  opinion,  but  of 
actual  experiment,  in  which  you  must  either  do  the  thing  or  not 
do  it.  If  a  man  is  put  to  aim  at  a  mark  with  a  bow  and  arrow, 
he  must  hit  it  or  miss  it,  that's  certain.  He  cannot  deceive  him- 
self, and  go  on  shooting  wide  or  falling  short,  and  still  fancy  that 
he  is  making  progress.  The  distinction  between  right  and  wrong, 
between  true  and  false,  is  here  palpable  ;  and  he  must  either  cor- 
rect his  aim  or  persevere  in  his  error  with  his  eyes  open,  for 
which  there  is  neither  excuse  nor  temptation.  If  a  man  is  learn- 
ing to  dance  on  a  rope,  if  he  does  not  mind  what  he  is  about,  he 
will  break  his  neck.  After  that,  it  will  be  in  vain  for  him  to 
argue  that  he  did  not  make  a  false  step.  His  situation  is  not 
like  that  of  Goldsmith's  pedagogue — 

"  In  argument  they  own'd  his  wondrous  skill, 
And  e'en  though  vanquish'd,  he  could  argue  still." 

Danger  is  a  good  teacher,  and  makes  apt  scholars.  So  are  dis- 
grace, defeat,  exposure  to  immediate  scorn  and  laughter.  There 
»s  no  opportunity  in  such  cases  for  self-delusion,  no  idling  time 
away,  being  off  your  guard  (or  you  must  take  the  consequences) 


90  TABLE  TALK. 

— neither  is  there  any  room  for  humour  or  caprice  or  prejudice. 
If  the  Indian  Juggler  were  to  play  tricks  in  throwing  up  the  three 
case-knives,  which  keep  their  positions  like  the  leaves  of  a  crocua 
m  the  air,  he  would  cut  his  fingers.  I  can  make  a  very  bad  an- 
tithesis without  cutting  my  fingers.  The  tact  of  style  is  more 
ambiguous  than  that  of  double-edged  instruments.  If  the  Juggler 
were  told  that  by  flinging  himself  under  the  wheels  of  the  Jugger- 
naut, when  the  idol  issues  forth  on  a  gaudy  day,  he  would  im- 
mediately  be  transported  into  Paradise,  he  might  believe  it,  and 
nobody  could  disprove  it.  So  the  Brahmins  may  -say  what  they 
please  on  that  subject,  may  build  up  dogmas  and  mysteries  with- 
out end,  and  not  be  detected  :  but  their  ingenious  countryman 
cannot  persuade  the  frequenters  of  the  Olympic  Theatre  that  he 
performs  a  number  of  astonishing  feats  without  actually  giving 
proofs  of  what  he  says.  There  is  then  in  this  sort  of  manual 
dexterity,  first  a  gradual  aptitude  acquired  tc  a  given  exertion  of 
muscular  power,  from  constant  repetition,  and  in  the  next  place, 
an  exact  knowledge  how  much  is  still  wanting  and  necessary  to 
be  supplied.  The  obvious  test  is  to  increase  the  effort  or  nicety 
of  the  operation,  and  still  to  find  it  come  true.  The  muscles  ply 
instinctively  to  the  dictates  of  habit.  Certain  movements  and 
impressions  of  the  hand  and  eye,  having  been  repeated  together 
an  infinite  number  of  times,  are  unconsciously  but  unavoidably 
cemented  into  closer  and  closer  union  ;  the  limbs  require  little 
more  than  to  be  put  in  motion  for  them  to  follow  a  regular  track 
with  ease  and  certainty ;  so  that  the  mere  intention  of  the  will 
acts  mathematically  like  touching  the  spring  of  a  machine,  and 
you  come  with  Locksley  in  Ivanhoe,  in  shooting  at  a  mark,  "  to 
allow  for  the  wind." 

Farther,  what  is  meant  by  perfection  in  mechanical  exercises 
is  the  performing  certain  feats  to  a  uniform  nicety,  that  is,  in 
fact,  undertaking  no  more  than  you  can  perform.  You  task 
yourself,  the  limit  you  fix  is  optional,  and  no  more  than  human 
industry  and  skill  can  attain  to :  but  you  have  no  abstract,  inde- 
pendent standard  of  difficulty  or  excellence  (other  than  the  extent 
of  your  own  powers).  Thus  he  who  can  keep  up  four  brass  balls 
does  this  to  perfection  ;  but  he  cannot  keep  up  five  at  the  same  in 
stant,  and  would  fail  every  time  he  attempted  it.     That  is,  the  me- 


THE  INDIAN  JUGGLERS  «        91 

chanical  performer  undertakes  to  emulate  himself,  not  t  equal 
another.*  But  the  artist  undertakes  to  imitate  another,  or  to  do 
what  nature  has  done,  and  this  it  appears  is  more  difficult,  viz.  to 
copy  what  she  has  set  before  us  in  the  face  of  nature  or  "  human 
face  divine,"  entire  and  without  a  blemish,  than  to  keep  up  four 
brass  balls  at  the  same  instant,  for  the  one  is  done  by  the  power 
of  human  skill  and  industry,  and  the  other  never  was  nor  will  be. 
Upon  the  whole,  therefore,  I  have  more  respect  for  Reynolds, 
than  I  have  for  Richer  ;  for,  happen  how  it  will,  there  have  been 
more  people  in  the  world  who  could  dance  on  a  rope  like  the  one 
than  who  could  painl  like  Sir  Joshua.  The  latter  was  but  a 
bungler  in  his  profession  to  the  other,  it  is  true ;  but  then  he  had 
a  harder  task-master  to  obey,  whose  will  was  more  wayward 
and  obscure,  and  whose  instructions  it  was  more  difficult  to 
practise.  You  can  put  a  child  apprentice  to  a  tumbler  or  rope- 
dancer  with  a  comfortable  prospect  of  success,  if  they  are  but 
sound  of  wind  and  limb :  but  you  cannot  do  the  same  thing  in 
painting.  The  odds  are  a  million  to  one.  You  may  make  in- 
deed as  many  H s  and  H s,  as  you  put  into  that  sort 

of  machine,  but  not  one  Reynolds  amongst  them  all,  with  his 
grace,  his  grandeur,  his  blandness  of  gusto,  "  in  tones  and  ges- 
tures hit,"  unless  you  could  make  the  man  over  again.  To 
snatch  this  grace  beyond  the  reach  of  art  is  then  the  height  of 
art — where  fine  art  begins,  and  where  mechanical  skill  ends. 
The  soft  suffusion  of  the  soul,  the  speechless  breathing  eloquence, 
the  looks  "  commercing  with  the  skies,"  the  ever-shifting  forms 
of  an  eternal  principle,  that  which  is  seen  but  for  a  moment,  but 
dwells  in  the  heart  always,  and  is  only  seized  as  it  passes  by 
strong  and  secret  sympathy,  must  be  taught  by  nature  and  ge- 
nius, not  by  rules  or  study.  It  is  suggested  by  feeling,  not  by 
laborious  microscopic  inspection  :  in  seeking  for  it  without,  we 
lose  the  harmonious  clue  to  it  within  :  and  in  aiming  to  grasp 
the  substance,  we  let  the  very  spirit  of  art  evaporate.  In  a 
word,  the  objects  of  fine  art  are  not  the  objects  of  sight  but  as 
these  last  are  the  objects  of  taste  and  imagination,  that  is,  as  they 

*  If  two  persons  play  against  each  other  at  any  game,  one  of  them  neces- 
sarily fails. 

7 PART  II. 


98  TABLE  TALK. 


appeal  to  the  sense  of  beauty,  of  pleasure,  and  of  power  in  the 
human  breast,  and  are  explained  by  that  finer  sense,  and  re- 
vealed in  their  inner  structure  to  the  eye  in  return.  Nature  is 
also  a  language.  Objects,  like  words,  have  a  meaning  ;  and  the 
true  artist  is  the  interpreter  of  this  language,  which  he  can  only 
do  by  knowing  its  application  to  a  thousand  other  objects  in  a 
thousand  other  situations.  Thus  the  eye  is  too  blind  a  guide  of 
itself  to  distinguish  between  the  warm  or  cold  tone  of  a  deep  blue 
sky,  but  another  sense  acts  as  a  monitor  to  it,  and  does  not  err. 
The  colour  of  the  leaves  in  autumn  would  be  nothing  without  the 
feeling  that  accompanies  it ;  but  it  is  that  feeling  that  stamps 
them  on  the  canvas,  faded,  seared,  blighted,  shrinking  from  the 
winter's  flaw,  and  makes  the  sight  as  true  as  touch — 

"  And  visions,  as  poetic  eyes  avow, 

Cling  to  each  leaf  and  hang  on  every  bough." 

The  more  ethereal,  evanescent,  more  refined  and  sublime  pari  of 
art  is  the  seeing  nature  through  the  medium  of  sentiment  and 
passion,  as  each  object  is  a  symbol  of  the  affections  and  a  link  in 
the  chain  of  our  endless  being.  But  the  unravelling  this  mys- 
terious web  of  thought  and  feeling  is  alone  in  the  Muse's  gift, 
namely,  in  the  power  of  that  trembling  sensibility  which  is  awake 
to  every  change  and  every  modification  of  its  ever-varying  im- 
pressions, that 

"  Thrills  in  each  nerve,  and  lives  along  the  line." 

This  power  is  indifferently  called  genius,  imagination,  feeling, 
taste  ;  but  the  manner  in  which  it  acts  upon  the  mind  can  neither 
be  defined  by  abstract  rules,  as  is  the  case  in  scienee,  nor  veri- 
fied by  continual  unvarying  experiments,  as  is  the  case  in  me- 
chanical performances.  The  mechanical  excellence  of  the 
Dutch  painters  in  colouring  and  handling  is  that  which  comes 
the  nearest  in  fine  art  to  the  perfection  of  certain  manual  exhibi- 
tions of  skill.  The  truth  of  the  effect  and  the  facility  with  which 
it  is  produced  are  equally  admirable.  Up  to  a  certain  point, 
every  thing  is  faultless.  The  hand  and  eye  have  done  their 
part.     There  is  only  a  want  j.c  f.aste  and  genius.     It  is  after  we 


THE  INDIAN  JUGGLERS.  93 


enter  upon  that  enchanted  ground  that  the  human  mind  begins 
to  droop  and  flag  as  in  a  strange  road,  or  in  a  thick  mist,  be- 
nighted and  making  little  way  with  many  attempts  and  many 
failures,  and  that  the  best  of  us  only  escape  with  half  a  tri- 
umph. The  undefined  and  the  imaginary  are  the  regions  that  we 
must  pass  like  Satan,  difficult  and  doubtful,  "  half  flying,  half  on 
foot."  The  object  in  sense  is  a  positive  thing,  and  execution 
comes  with  practice. 

Cleverness  is  a  certain  knack  or  aptitude  at  doing  certain  things, 
which  depend  more  on  a  particular  adroitness  and  off-hand 
readiness  than  on  force  or  perseverance,  such  as  making  puns, 
making  epigrams,  making  extempore  verses,  mimicking  the 
company,  mimicking  a  style,  &c.  Cleverness  is  either  live- 
liness and  smartness,  or  something  answering  to  slight  of  hand, 
like  letting  a  glass  fall  sideways  off  a  table,  or  else  a  trick,  like 
knowing  the  secret  spring  of  a  watch.  Accomplishments  are 
certain  external  graces,  which  are  to  be  learnt  from  others,  and 
which  are  easily  displayed  to  the  admiration  of  the  beholder,  viz. 
dancing,  riding,  fencing,  music,  and  so  on.  These  ornamental 
acquirements  are  only  proper  to  those  who  are  at  ease  in  mind 
and  fortune.  I  know  an  individual  who,  if  he  had  been  born  to 
an  estate  of  five  thousand  a  year,  would  have  been  the  most  ac- 
complished gentleman  of  the  age.  He  would  have  been  the  de- 
light and  envy  of  the  circle  in  which  he  moved — would  have 
graced  by  his  manners  the  liberality  flowing  from  the  openness 
of  his  heart,  would  have  laughed  with  the  women,  have  argued 
with  the  men,  have  said  good  things  and  written  agreeable 
ones,  have  taken  a  hand  at  piquet  or  the  lead  at  the  harpsichord, 
and  have  set  and  sung  his  own  verses — nugce,  canorce — with  ten- 
derness and  spirit ;  a  Rochester  without  the  vice,  a  modern  Sur- 
rey !  As  it  is,  all  these  capabilities  of  excellence  stand  in  his 
way.  He  is  too  versatile  for  a  professional  man,  not  dull  enough 
for  a  political  drudge,  too  gay  to  be  happy,  too  thoughtless 
to  be  rich.  He  wants  the  enthusiasm  of  the  poet,  the  severi- 
ty of  the  prose-writer,  and  the  application  of  the  man  of 
business.  Talent  is  the  capacity  of  doing  any  thing  that  de- 
pends on  application  and  industry,  such  as  writing  a  criti 
cism  making  a  speech,  studying  the  law.     Talent  differs  from 

13 


94  TABLE  TALK. 


genius,  as  voluntary  differs  from  involuntary  power.  Ingenuity 
is  genius  in  trifles,  greatness  is  genius  in  undertakings  of  much 
pith  and  moment.  A  clever  or  ingenious  man  is  one  who  can  do 
any  thing  well,  whether  it  is  worth  doing  or  not:  a  great 
man  is  one  who  can  do  that  which  when  done  is  of  the  highest 
importance.  Themistocles  said  he  could  not  play  on  the  flute, 
but  that  he  could  make  of  a  small  city  a  great  one.  This  gives 
one  a  pretty  good  idea  of  the  distinction  in  question. 

Greatness  is  great  power,  producing  great  effects.  It  is  not 
enough  that  a  man  has  great  power  in  himself,  he  must  show  it 
to  all  the  world  in  a  way  that  cannot  be  hid  or  gainsaid.  He 
must  fill  up  a  certain  idea  in  the  public  mind.  I  have  no  other 
notion  of  greatness  than  this  two-fold  definition,  great  results 
springing  from  great  inherent  energy.  The  great  in  visible  ob- 
jects has  relation  to  that  which  extends  over  space  :  the  great  in 
mental  ones  has  to  do  with  space  and  time.  No  man  is  truly 
great,  who  is  great  only  in  his  life-time.  The  test  of  greatness 
is  the  page  of  history.  Nothing  can  be  said  to  be  great  that  has 
a  distinct  limit,  or  that  borders  on  something  evidently  greater 
than  itself.  Besides,  what  is  short-lived  and  pampered  into  mere 
notoriety,  is  of  a  gross  and  vulgar  quality  in  itself.  A  Lord 
Mayor  is  hardly  a  great  man.  A  city  orator  or  patriot  of  the 
day  only  show,  by  reaching  the  height  of  their  wishes,  the  dis- 
tance they  are  at  from  any  true  ambition.  Popularity  is  neither 
fame  nor  greatness.  A  king  (as  such)  is  not  a  great  man.  He 
has  great  power,  but  it  is  not  his  own.  He  merely  wields  the 
lever  of  the  state,  which  a  child,  an  idiot,  or  a  madman  can  do. 
It  is  the  office,  not  the  man  we  gaze  at.  Any  one  else  in  the 
same  situation  would  be  just  as  much  an  object  of  abject  curiosi- 
ty. We  laugh  at  the  country-girl  who  having  seen  a  king  ex- 
pressed her  disappointment  by  saying,  "  Why,  he  is  only  a 
man  !"  Yet,  knowing  this,  we  run  to  see  a  king  as  if  he  was 
something  more  than  a  man.  To  display  the  greatest  powers, 
unless  they  are  applied  to  great  purposes,  makes  nothing  for  the 
character  of  greatness.  To  throw  a  barley-corn  through  the  eye 
of  a  needle,  to  multiply  nine  figures  by  nine  in  the  memory,  ar- 
gues infinite  dexterity  of  body  and  capacity  of  mind,  but  nothing 
comes  of  either.     There  is  a  surprising  power  at  work,  but  the 


THE   INDIAN  JUGGLERS.  95 

effects  are  not  proportionate,  or  such  as  take  hold  of  the  imagi- 
nation. To  impress  the  idea  of  power  on  others,  they  must  be 
made  in  some  way  to  feel  it.  It  must  be  communicated  to  theii 
understandings  in  the  shape  of  an  increase  of  knowledge,  or  it 
must  subdue  and  overawe  them  by  subjecting  their  wills.  Ad 
miration  to  be  solid  and  lasting  must  be  founded  on  proofs  from 
which  we  have  no  means  of  escaping;  it  is  neither  a  slight  nor  a 
voluntary  gift.  A  mathematician  who  solves  a  profound  problem, 
a  poet  who  creates  an  image  of  beauty  in  the  mind  that  was  not 
there  before,  imparts  knowledge  and  power  to  others,  in  which 
his  greatness  and  his  fame  consists,  and  on  which  it  reposes. 
Jedediah  Buxton  will  be  forgotten ;  but  Napier's  bones  will  live. 
Lawgivers,  philosophers,  founders  of  religion,  conquerors  and 
heroes,  inventors  and  great  geniuses  in  arts  and  sciences,  are 
great  men,  for  they  are  great  public  benefactors,  or  formidable 
scourges  to  mankind.  Among  ourselves,  Shakespear,  Newton, 
Bacon,  Milton,  Cromwell,  were  great  men,  for  they  showed  great 
power  by  acts  and  thoughts,  which  have  not  yet  been  consigned 
to  oblivion.  They  must  needs  be  men  of  lofty  stature,  whose 
shadows  lengthen  out  to  remote  posterity.  A  great  farce-writer 
may  be  a  great  man ;  for  Moliere  was  but  a  great  farce-writer. 
In  my  mind,  the  author  of  Don  Quixote  was  a  great  man.  So 
have  there  been  many  others.  A  great  chess-player  is  not  a 
great  man,  for  he  leaves  the  world  as  he  found  it.  No  act  ter- 
minating in  itself  constitutes  greatness.  This  will  apply  to  all 
displays  of  power  or  trials  of  skill,  which  are  confined  to  the  mo- 
mentary, individual  effort,  and  construct  no  permanent  image  or 
trophy  of  themselves  without  them.  Is  not  an  actor  then  a  great 
man,  because  "  he  dies  and  leaves  the  world  no  copy  V  I  must 
make  an  exception  for  Mrs.  Siddons,  or  else  give  up  m\  defini- 
tion  of  greatness  for  her  sake.  A  man  at  the  top  of  his  vr. Ten- 
sion is  not  therefore  a  great  man.  He  is  great  in  his  way,  but 
that  is  all,  unless  he  shows  the  marks  of  a  great  moving  mfe!- 
lect,  so  that  we  trace  the  master-mind,  and  can  sympathize  w.ih 
the  springs  that  urge  him  on.  The  rest  is  but  a  craft  or  m\  TJPtif. 
John  Hunter  was  a  great  man — that  any  one  might  see  wi„Vm 
the  smallest  skill  in  surgery.  His  style  and  manner  showed  the 
man.     He  would  se   about  cutting  up  the   carcase  of  a  whaie 

13 


96  TABLE  TALK. 


with  the  same  greatness  of  gusto  that  Michael  Angelo  would 
have  hewn  a  block  of  marble.  Lord  Nelson  was  a  g.eat  js.tv.1 
commander;  but  for  myself,  I  have  not  much  opinion  of  o  >.r 3- 
faring  life.  Sir  Humphrey  Davy  is  a  great  chemist,  but  I  avn 
not  sure  that  he  is  a  great  man.  I  am  not  a  bit  the  wiser  fcv  auy 
of  his  discoveries,  nor  I  never  met  with  any  one  that  was.  Put 
it  is  in  the  nature  of  greatness  to  propagate  an  idea  of  itself,  us 
wave  impels  wave,  circle  without  circle.  It  is  a  contrar  iction  iu 
terms  for  a  coxcomb  to  be  a  great  man.  A  really  great  man 
has  always  an  idea  of  something  greater  than  himself  I  have 
observed  that  certain  sectaries  and  polemical  writers  have  no 
higher  compliment  to  pay  their  most  shining  lights  thsn  to  say  thf*t 
"  Such  a  one  was  a  considerable  man  in  his  day."  Some  new 
elucidation  of  a  text  sets  aside  the  authority  of  the  old  interim* 
tation,  and  a  "  great  scholar's  memory  outlives  him  half  a  cen- 
tury," at  the  utmost.  A  rich  man  is  not  a  great  man,  except  to 
his  dependants  and  his  steward.  A  lord  is  a  great  man  in  the 
idea  we  have  of  his  ancestry,  and  probably  of  himself,  if  we 
know  nothing  of  him  but  his  title.  I  have  heard  a  story  of  two 
bishops,  one  of  whom  said  (speaking  of  St.  Peter's  at  Rome)  that 
when  he  first  entered  it,  he  was  rather  awe-struck,  but  that  as  he 
walked  up  it,  his  mind  seemed  to  swell  and  dilate  with  it,  and  at 
last  to  fill  the  whole  building — the  other  said  that  as  he  saw 
more  of  it,  he  appeared  to  himself  to  grow  less  and  less  every 
step  he  took,  and  in  the  end  to  dwindle  into  nothing.  This  was 
in  some  respects  a  striking  picture  of  a  great  and  little  mind — 
for  greatness  sympathizes  with  greatness,  and  littleness  shrinks 
into  itself.  The  one  might  have  become  a  Wolsey  ;  the  other 
was  only  fit  to  become  a  mendicant  friar — or  there  might  have 
been  court-reasons  for  making  him  a  bishop.  The  French  have 
to  me  a  character  of  littleness  in  all  about  them ;  but  they  have 
produced  three  great  men  that  belong  to  every  country,  Moliere 
Rabelais,  and  Montaigne. 

To  return  from  this  digression,  and  conclude  the  Essay.  A 
singular  instance  of  manual  dexterity  was  shown  in  the  person 
of  tbe  late  John  Cavanagh,  whom  I  have  several  times  seen.  His 
death  was  celebrated  at  the  time  in  an  article  in  the  Examiner 
newspaper,  (Feb.  7,  1819,)  written  apparently  between  jest  and 


THE  INDIAN  JUGGLERS.  97 

earnest :  but  as  it  is  pat  to  our  purpose,  and  falls  in  with  my 
own  way  of  considering  such  subjects,  I  shall  here  take  leave  to 
quote  it. 

"  Died  at  his  house  in  Burbage-street,  St.  Giles's,  John  Ca- 
vanagh,  the  famous  hand  fives-player.  When  a  person  dies, 
who  does  any  one  thing  better  than  any  one  else  in  the  world, 
which  so  many  others  are  trying  to  do  well,  it  leaves  a  gap  in 
society.  It  is  not  likely  that  any  one  will  now  see  the  game  of 
fives  played  in  its  perfection  for  many  years  to  come — for  Ca- 
vanagh  is  dead,  and  has  not  left  his  peer  behind  him.  It  may 
be  said  that  there  are  things  of  more  importance  than  striking  a 
ball  against  a  wall — there  are  things  indeed  that  make  more 
ncise  and  do  as  little  good,  such  as  making  war  and  peace, 
making  speeches  and  answering  them ;  making  verses  and 
blotting  them ;  making  money  and  throwing  it  away.  But 
the  game  of  fives  is  what  no  one  despises  who  has  ever 
played  at  it.  It  is  the  finest  exercise  for  the  body,  and  the 
best  relaxation  for  the  mind.  The  Roman  poet  said  that  '  Care 
mounted  behind  the  horseman  and  stuck  to  his  skirts.'  But  this 
remark  would  not  have  applied  to  the  fives-player.  He  who 
takes  to  playing  at  fives  is  twice  young.  He  feels  neither  the 
past  nor  future  '  in  the  instant.'  Debts,  taxes, '  domestic  treason, 
foreign  levy,  nothing  can  touch  him  further.'  He  has  no  other 
wish,  no  other  thought,  from  the  moment  the  game  begins,  but 
that  of  striking  the  ball,  of  placing  it,  of  making  it !  This  Ca- 
vanagh  was  sure  to  do.  Whenever  he  touched  the  ball,  there 
was  an  end  of  the  chase.  His  eye  was  certain,  his  hand  fatal, 
his  presence  of  mind  complete.  He  could  do  what  he  pleased, 
and  Jie  always  knew  exactly  what  to  do.  He  saw  the  whole 
game,  and  played  it ;  took  instant  advantage  of  his  adversary's 
weakness,  and  recovered  balls,  as  if  by  a  miracle  and  from  sud- 
den thought,  that  every  one  gave  for  lost.  He  had  equal  power 
and  skill,  quickness,  and  judgment.  He  could  either  outwit  his 
antagonist  by  finesse,  or  beat  him  by  main  strength.  Sometimes, 
when  he  seemed  preparing  to  send  the  ball  with  the  full  swing 
of  his  arm,  he  would  by  a  slight  turn  of  his  wrist  drop  it  within 
an  inch  of  the  line.  In  general,  the  ball  came  from  his  hand  as 
tf  from  a  racket,  in  a  straight  horizontal  line  ;  so  that  it  was  in 


98  TABLE  TALK.. 


vain  to  attempt  to  overtake  or  stop  it.  As  it  was  said  of  a  great 
orator  that  he  never  was  at  a  loss  for  a  word,  and  for  the  pro- 
perest  word,  so  Cavanagh  always  could  tell  the  degree  of  force 
necessary  to  be  given  to  a  ball,  and  the  precise  direction  in  which 
it  should  be  sent.  He  did  his  work  with  the  greatest  ease  ;  never 
took  more  pains  than  was  necessary ;  and  while  others  were  fag- 
ging themselves  to  death,  was  as  cool  and  collected  as  if  he  had 
just  entered  the  court.  His  style  of  play  was  as  remarkable  as 
his  power  of  execution.  He  had  no  affectation,  no  trifling.  He 
did  not  throw  away  the  game  to  show  off  an  attitude,  or  try  an 
experiment.  He  was  a  fine,  sensible,  manly  player,  who  did 
what  he  could,  but  that  was  more  than  any  one  else  could  even 
affect  to  do.  His  blows  were  not  undecided  and  ineffectual — 
lumbering  like  Mr.  Wordsworth's  epic  poetry,  nor  wavering  like 
Mr.  Coleridge's  lyric  prose,  nor  short  of  the  mark  like  Mr. 
Brougham's  speeches,  nor  wide  of  it  like  Mr.  Canning's  wit,  nor 
foul  like  the  Quarterly,  net  let  balls  like  the  Edinburgh  Review. 
Cobbett  and  Junius  together  would  have  made  a  Cavanagh.  He 
was  the  best  up-hill  player  in  the  world  ;  even  when  his  adver- 
sary was  fourteen,  he  would  play  on  the  same  or  better,  and  as 
he  never  flung  away  the  gr.me  through  carelessness  and  conceit, 
he  never  gave  it  up  through  laziness  or  want  of  heart.  The  only 
peculiarity  of  his  play  was  that  he  never  volleyed,  but  let  the 
balls  hop ;  but  if  they  rose  an  inch  from  the  ground,  he  never 
missed  having  them.  There  was  not  only  nobody  equal,  but  no- 
body second  to  him.  It  is  supposed  that  he  could  give  any  other 
player  half  the  game,  or  beat  them  with  his  left  hand.  His  ser- 
vice was  tremendous.  He  once  played  Woodward  and  Meredith 
together  (two  of  the  best  players  in  England)  in  the  Fives-court, 
St.  Martin's-street,  and  made  seven  and  twenty  aces  following 
by  services  alone — a  thing  unheard  of.  He  another  time  played 
Peru,  who  was  considered  a  first-rate  fives-player,  a  match  of 
the  best  out  of  five  games,  and  in  the  three  first  games,  whicv 
of  course  decided  the  match,  Peru  got  only  one  ace.  Cavanagl 
was  an  Irishman  by  birth,  and  a  house- painter  by  profession. 
He  had  once  laid  aside  his  working-dress,  and  walked  up,  in  his 
smartest  clothes,  to  the  Rosemary  Branch  to  have  an  afternoon's 
pleasure.     A  person  accosted  him,  and  asked  him  if  he  would 


THE  INDIAN  JUGGLERS.  99 

have  a  game.  So  they  agreed  to  play  for  half  a  crown  a  game, 
and  a  bottle  of  cider.  The  first  game  began — it  was  seven, 
eight,  ten,  thirteen,  fourteen,  all.  Cavanagh  won  it.  The  next 
was  the  same.  They  played  on,  and  each  game  was  hardly  con- 
tested. '  There,'  said  the  unconscious  fives-player,  '  there  was 
a  stroke  that  Cavanagh  could  not  take  :  I  never  played  better  in 
my  life,  and  yet  I  can't  win  a  game.  I  don't  know  how  it  is.' 
However,  they  played  on,  Cavanagh  winning  every  game,  and 
the  by-standers  drinking  the  cider  and  laughing  all  the  time.  In 
the  twelfth  game,  when  Cavanagh  was  only  four,  and  the  stranger 
thirteen,  a  person  came  in,  and  said,  '  What !  are  you  here,  Ca- 
vanagh V  The  words  were  no  sooner  pronounced  than  the  as- 
tonished player  let  the  ball  drop  from  his  hand,  and  saying, 
'  What !  have  I  been  breaking  my  heart  all  this  time  to  beat  Ca- 
vanagh V  refused  to  make  another  effort.  '  And  yet,  I  give  you 
my  word,'  said  Cavanagh,  telling  the  story  with  some  triumph, 
'  I  played  all  the  while  with  my  clenched  fist.' — He  used  fre- 
quently to  play  matches  at  Copenhagen-house  for  wagers  and 
dinners.  The  wall  against  which  they  play  is  the  same  that 
supports  the  kitchen-chimney,  and  when  the  wall  resounded 
louder  than  usual,  the  cooks  exclaimed,  •  Those  are  the  Irish- 
man's balls,'  and  the  joints  trembled  on  the  spit ! — Goldsmith 
consoled  himself  that  there  were  places  where  he  too  was  ad- 
mired :  and  Cavanagh  was  the  admiration  of  all  the  fives-courts, 
where  he  ever  played.  Mr.  Powell,  when  he  played  matches  in 
the  Court  in  St.  Martin's-street,  used  to  fill  his  gallery  at  half-a- 
crown.  a  head,  with  amateurs  and  admirers  of  talent  in  what- 
ever department  it  is  shown.  He  could  not  have  shown  himself 
in  any  ground  in  England,  but  he  would  have  been  immediately 
surrounded  with  inquisitive  gazers,  trying  to  find  out  in  what 
part  of  his  frame  his  unrivalled  skill  lay,  as  politicians  wonder 
to  see  the  balance  of  Europe  suspended  in  Lord  Castlereagh's 
face,  and  admire  the  trophies  of  the  British  navy  lurking  under 
Mr.  Croker's  hanging  brow.  Now  Cavanagh  was  as  good-look- 
ing a  man  as  the  Noble  Lord,  and  much  better  looking  than  the 
Right  Hon.  Secretary.  He  had  a  clear,  open  countenance,  and 
did  not  look  sideways  or  down,  like  Mr.  Murray  the  bookseller. 
He  was  a  young  fellow  of  sense,  humour,  and  courage.     Ho 


100  TABLE  TALK. 


once  had  a  quarrel  with  a  waterman  at  Hungerford-stairs,  and 
they  say,  served  him  out  in  great  style.  In  a  word,  there  are 
hundreds  at  this  day,  who  cannot  mention  his  name  without  ad- 
miration, as  the  best  fives-player  that  perhaps  ever  lived  (the 
greatest  excellence  of  which  they  have  any  notion) — and  the 
noisy  shout  of  the  ring  happily  stood  him  in  stead  of  the  unheard 
voice  of  posterity! — The  only  person  who  seems  to  have  excelled 
as  much  in  another  way  as  Cavanagh  did  in  his,  was  the  late 
John  Davies,  the  racket-player.  It  was  remarked  of  him  that 
he  did  not  seem  to  follow  the  ball,  but  the  ball  seemed  to  follow 
him.  Give  him  a  foot  of  wall,  and  he  was  sure  to  make  the  ball. 
The  four  best  racket-players  of  that  day  were  Jack  Spines,  Jem 
Harding,  Armitage,  and  Church.  Davies  could  give  any  one 
of  these  two  hands  a  time,  that  is,  half  the  game,  and  each  of 
these,  at  their  best,  could  give  the  best  player  now  in  London 
the  same  odds.  Such  are  the  gradations  in  all  exertions  of  hu- 
man skill  and  art.  He  once  played  four  capital  players  together, 
and  beat  them.  He  was  also  a  first-rate  tennis-player,  and  an 
excellent  fives-player.  In  the  Fleet  or  King's  Bench,  he  would 
have  stood  against  Powell,  who  was  reckoned  the  best  open- 
ground  player  of  his  time.  This  last-mentioned  player  is  at  pre- 
sent the  keeper  of  the  Fives-court,  and  we  might  recommend  to 
him  for  a  motto  over  his  door — '  Who  enters  here,  forgets  him- 
self, his  country,  and  his  friends.'  And  the  best  of  it  is,  that  by 
the  calculation  of  the  odds,  none  of  the  three  are  worth  remem- 
bering ! — Cavanagh  died  from  the  bursting  of  a  blood-vessel, 
which  prevented  him  from  playing  for  the  last  two  or  three  years. 
This,  he  was  often  heard  to  say,  he  thought  hard  upon  him.  He 
was  fast  recovering,  however,  when  he  was  suddenly  carried  off, 
to  the  regret  of  all  who  knew  him.  As  Mr.  Peel  made  it  a 
qualification  of  the  present  Speaker,  Mr.  Manners  Sutton,  that 
he  was  an  excellent  moral  character,  so  Jack  Cavanagh  was  a 
zealous  Catholic,  and  could  not  be  persuaded  to  eat  meat  on  a 
Friday,  the  day  on  which  he  died.  We  have  paid  this  willing 
tribute  to  his  memory. 

"  Let  no  rude  hand  deface  it, 
And  his  forlorn  '  Hie  Jacet.'" 


ON  THE  PROSE-STYLE  OI   POETS.  101 


ESSAY  XXIV. 

On  the  Prose-Style  of  Poets. 

I  have  but  an  indifferent  opinion  of  the  prose-style  of  poets :  not 
that  it  is  not  sometimes  good,  nay  excellent ;  but  it  is  never  the 
better,  and  generally  the  worse,  from  the  habit  of  writing  verse. 
Poets  are  winged  animals,  and  can  cleave  the  air  like  birds,  with 
ease  to  themselves  and  delight  to  the  beholders  ;  but  like  those 
"  feathered,  two-legged  things,"  when  they  light  upon  the  ground 
of  prose  and  matter-of-fact,  they  seem  not  to  have  the  same  use 
of  their  feet. 

What  is  a  little  extraordinary,  there  is  a  want  of  rhyihmus  and 
cadence  in  what  they  write  without  the  help  of  metrical  rules. 
Like  persons  who  have  been  accustomed  to  sing  to  music,  they 
are  at  a  loss  in  the  absence  of  the  habitual  accompaniment  and 
guide  to  their  judgment.  Their  style  halts,  totters,  is  loose,  dis- 
jointed, and  without  expressive  pauses  or  rapid  movements.  The 
measured  cadence  and  regular  sing-song  of  rhyme  or  blank  verse 
have  destroyed,  as  it  were,  their  natural  ear  for  the  mere  charac- 
teristic harmony  which  ought  to  subsist  between  the  sound  and 
the  sense.  I  should  almost  guess  the  Author  of  Waverley  to  be 
a  writer  of  ambling  verses  from  the  desultory  vacillation  and  want 
of  firmness  in  the  march  of  his  style.  There  is  neither  momentum 
nor  elasticity  in  it ;  I  mean  as  to  the  score,  or  effect  upon  the  ear. 
He  has  improved  since  in  his  other  works :  to  be  sure,  he  has  had 
practice  enough.*  Poets  either  get  into  this  incoherent,  undeter- 
mined, shuffling  style,  made  up  of  "  unpleasing  Hats  and  sharps," 
of  unaccountable  starts  and  pauses,  of  doubtful  odds  and  ends, 
flirted  about  like  straws  in  a  gust  of  wind  ;  or,  to  avoid  it  and 

*  Is  it  not  a  collateral  proof  that  Sir  Walter  Scott  is  the  Author  of  Waverley, 
ihat  ever  since  these  Novels  began  to  appear,  his  Muse  has  been  silent,  till  the 
publication  of  Halidon.-Hill  ? 

13* 


!"3  TABLE   TALK. 


steady  themselves,  mount  into  a  sustained  and  measured  prose 
(like  the  translation  of  Ossian's  Poems,  or  some  parts  of  Shaftes- 
bury's Characteristics)  which  is  more  odious  still,  and  as  bad  as 
being  at  sea  in  a  calm.  Dr.  Johnson's  style  (particularly  in  his 
Rambler),  is  not  free  from  the  last  objection.  There  is  a  tune  in 
it,  a  mechanical  recurrence  of  the  same  rise  and  fail  in  the  clauses 
of  his  sentences,  independent  of  any  reference  to  the  meaning  of 
the  text,  or  progress  or  inflection  of  the  sense.  There  is  the  alter- 
nate roll  of  his  cumbrous  cargo  of  words  ;  his  periods  complete 
their  revolutions  at  certain  stated  intervals,  let  the  matter  be  longer 
or  shorter,  rough  or  smooth,  round  or  square,  different  or  the  same. 
This  monotonous  and  balanced  mode  of  composition  may  be  com- 
pared  to  that  species  of  portrait-painting  which  prevailed  about  a 
century  ago,  in  which  each  face  was  cast  in  a  regular  and  pre- 
conceived mould.  The  eye-brows  were  arched  mathematically 
as  if  with  a  pair  of  compasses,  and  the  distances  between  the  nose 
and  mouth,  the  forehead  and  chin,  determined  according  to  a 
"  foregone  conclusion,"  and  the  features  of  the  identical  individual 
were  afterwards, accommodated  to  them,  how  they  could  !* 

Home  Tooke  used  to  maintain  that  no  one  could  write  a  good 
prose  style,  who  was  not  accustomed  to  express  himself  viva  voce, 
or  to  talk  in  company.  He  argued  that  this  was  the  fault  of 
Addison's  prose,  and  that  its  smooth,  equable  uniformity,  and 
want  of  sharpness  and  spirit,  arose  from  his  not  having  familiar- 
ized his  ear  to  the  sound  of  his  own  voice,  or  at  least  only  among 
friends  and  admirers,  where  there  was  but  little  collision,  dra- 
matic fluctuation,  or  sudden  contrariety  of  opinion  to  provoke 
animated  discussion,  and  give  birth  to  different  intonations  and 
lively  transitions  of  speech.  His  style  (in  this  view  of  it)  was 
not  indented,  nor  did  it  project  from  the  surface.  There  was  no 
stress  laid  on  one  word  more  than  another — it  did  not  hurry  on  or 
stop  short,  or  sink  or  swell  with  the  occasion  :  it  was  throughout 
equally  insipid,  flowing,  and  harmonious,  and  had  the  effect  of  a 
studied  recitation  rather  than  of  a  natural  discourse.  This  would 
not  have  happened  (so  the  Member  for  Old  Sarum  contended) 
had  Addison  laid  himself  out  to  argue  at  his  club,  or  to  speak  in 
public  ;  for  then  his  ear  would  have  caught  the  necessary  modu. 

•  Sec  the  portraits  of  Kneller,  Richardson,  and  others. 


ON  THE  PROSE-STYLE  OF  POETS.  W, 

lations  of  sound  arising  out, of  the  feeling  of  the  moment,  a^d  he 
would  have  transferred  them  unconsciously  to  paper.  Much  might 
be  said  on  both  sides  of  this  question  :*  but  Mr.  Tooke  was  him- 
self an  unintentional  confirmation  of  his  own  argument ;  for  the 
tone  of  his  written  compositions  is  as  flat  and  unraised  as  his 
manner  of  speaking  was  hard  and  dry.  Of  the  poet  it  is  said  bv 
some  one,  that 

"  He  murmurs  by  the  running  brooks 
A  music  sweeter  than  their  own." 

On  the  contrary,  the  celebrated  person  just  alluded  to  might  be 
said  to  grind  the  sentences  between  his  teeth,  which  he  after- 
wards committed  to  paper,  and  threw  out  crusts  to  the  critics,  or 
bon-mots  to  the  Electors  of  Westminster  (as  we  throw  bones  to 
the  dogs,)  without  altering  a  muscle,  and  without  the  smallest 
tremulousness  of  voice  or  eye  !f  I  certainly  so  far  agree  with 
the  above  theory  as  to  conceive  that  no  style  is  worth  a  farthing 
that  is  not  calculated  to  be  read  out,  or  that  is  not  allied  to 
spirited  conversation :  but  I  at  the  same  time  think  the  process 
of  modulation  and  inflection  may  be  quite  as  complete,  or  more 
so,  without  the  external  enunciation ;  and  that  an  author  had 
better  try  the  effect  of  his  sentences  on  his  stomach  than  on  his 
ear.  He  may  be  deceived  by  the  last,  not  by  the  first.  No 
person,  I  imagine,  can  dictate  a  good  style  ;  or  spout  his  own 
compositions  with  impunity.  In  the  former  case,  he  will  flounder 
on  before  the  sense  or  words  are  ready,  sooner  than  suspend  his 
voice  in  air ;  and  in  the  latter,  he  can  supply  what  intonation  he 
pleases,  without  consulting  his  readers.  Parliamentary  speeches 
sometimes  read  well  aloud ;  but  we  do  not  find,  when  such  per- 

*  Goldsmith  was  not  a  talker,  though  he  blurted  out  his  good  things  now 
and  then:  yet  his  style  is  gay  and  voluble  enough.  Pope  was  also  a  silent 
man  ;  and  his  prose  is  timid  and  constrained,  and  his  verse  inclining  to  the 
monotonous. 

t  As  a  singular  example  of  steadiness  of  nerves,  Mr.  Tooke  on  one  occa- 
sion had  got  upon  the  table  at  a  public  dinner  to  return  thanks  for  his  health 
having  been  drank.  He  held  a  bumper  of  wine  in  his  hand,  but  he  wa3  re- 
ceived with  considerable  opposition  by  one  party,  and  at  the  end  of  the  dis- 
turbance, which  lasted  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  he  found  the  wine  glass  still 
full  to  the  brim. 


104  TABLE  TALK. 


sons  sit  down  to  write,  that  the  prose-style  of  public  speaker? 
and  great  orators  is  thebest,  most  natural,  or  varied  of  all  others. 
It  has  almost  always  either  a  professional  twang,  a  mechanical 
rounding  off,  or  else  is  stunted  and  unequal.  Charles  Fox  was 
the  most  rapid  and  even  hurried  of  speakers ;  but  his  written 
style  halts  and  creeps  slowly  along  the  ground.* — A  speaker  ia 
necessarily  kept  within  bounds  in  expressing  certain  things,  or 
in  pronouncing  a  certain  number  of  words,  by  the  limits  of  the 
breath  or  power  of  respiration :  certain  sounds  are  observed  to 
join  in  harmoniously  or  happily  with  others  :  an  emphatic  phrase 
must  not  be  placed,  where  the  power  of  utterance  is  enfeebled 
or  exhausted,  &c.  All  this  must  be  attended  to  in  writing,  (and 
will  be  so  unconsciously  by  a  practised  hand.)  or  there  will  be 
hiatus  in  manuscriptis.  The  words  must  be  so  arranged,  in  order 
to  make  an  efficient  readable  style,  as  "  to  come  trippingly  off 
the  tongue."  Hence  it  seems  that  there  is  a  natural  measure 
of  prose  in  the  feeling  of  the  subject  and  the  power  of  expres- 
sion in  the  voice,  as  there  is  an  artificial  one  of  verse  in  the  num. 
ber  and  co-ordination  of  the  syllables ;  and  I  conceive  that  the 
trammels  of  the  last  do  not  (where  they  have  been  long  worn) 
greatly  assist  the  freedom  or  the  exactness  of  the  first. 

Again,  in  poetry,  from  the  restraints  in  many  respects,  a 
greater  number  of  inversions,  or  a  latitude  in  the  transposition 
of  words  is  allowed,  which  is  not  conformable  to  the  strict  laws 
of  prose.   "Consequently,  a  poet  will  be  at  a  loss,  and  flounder 

*  I  have  been  told,  that  when  Sheridan  was  first  introduced  to  Mr.  Fox, 
what  cemented  an  immediate  intimacy  between  them  was  the  following  cir- 
cumstance. Mr.  Sheridan  had  been  the  night  before  to  the  House  of  Com- 
mons ;  and  being  asked  what  his  impression  was,  said  he  had  been  princi- 
pally struck  with  the  difference  of  manner  between  Mr.  Fox  and  Lord  Stor- 
mont.  The  latter  began  by  declaring  in  a  slow,  solemn,  drawling,  nasal  tone 
that  "  when  he  considered  the  enormity  and  the  unconstitutional  tendency  of 
the  measures  just  proposed,  he  was  hurried  away  in  a  torrent  of  passion  and 
a  whirlwind  of  impetuosity,"  pausing  between  every  word  and  syllable: 
while  the  first  said  (speaking  with  the  rapidity  of  lightning,  and  with  breath- 
less anxiety  and  impatience,)  that  "such  was  the  magnitude, such  the  import- 
ance, such  the  vital  interest  of  this  question,  that  he  could  not  help  imploring, 
he  could  not  help  adjuring  the  House  to  come  to  it  with  the  utmost  calmness, 
the  utmost  coolness,  the  utmost  deliberation."  This  trait  of  discrimination 
instantly  won  Mr.  Fox's  heart. 


ON  THE  PROSE-STYLE  OF  POETS.  105 

about  for  the  common  or  (as  we  understand  it)  natural  order  of 
words  in  prose-composition.  Dr.  Johnson  endeavoured  to  give 
an  air  of  dignity  and  novelty  to  his  diction  by  affecting  the  order 
of  words  usual  in  poetry.  Milton's  prose  has  not  only  this 
drawback,  but  it  has  also  the  disadvantage  of  being  formed  on 
a  classic  model.  It  is  like  a  fine  translation  from  the  Latin ; 
and  indeed,  he  wrote  originally  in  Latin.  The  frequency  of 
epithets  and  ornaments,  too,  is  a  resource  for  which  the  poet  finds 
it  difficult  to  obtain  an  equivalent.  A  direct,  or  simple  prose 
style  seems  to  him  bald  and  flat ;  and,  instead  of  forcing  an  in- 
terest in  the  subject  by  severity  of  description  and  reasoning,  he 
is  repelled  from  it  altogether  by  the  absence  of  those  obvious 
and  meretricious  allurements,  by  which  his  senses  and  his  ima- 
gination have  been  hitherto  stimulated  and  dazzled.  Thus  there 
is  often  at  the  same  time  a  want  of  splendour  and  a  want  of 
energy  in  what  he  writes,  without  the  invocation  of  the  Muse — 
invito.  Minerva.  It  is  like  setting  a  rope-dancer  to  perform  a 
tumbler's  tricks — the  hardness  of  the  ground  jars  his  nerves ;  or 
it  is  the  same  thing  as  a  painter's  attempting  to  carve  a  block  of 
marble  for  the  first  time — the  coldness  chills  him,  the  colourless 
uniformity  distracts  him,  the  precision  of  form  demanded  dis- 
heartens him.  So  in  prose-writing,  the  severity  of  composition 
required  damps  the  enthusiasm,  and  cuts  off  the  resources  of 
the  poet.  He  is  looking  for  beauty,  when  he  should  be  seeking 
for  truth  ;  and  aims  at  pleasure,  which  he  can  only  communicate 
by  increasing  the  sense  of  power  in  the  reader.  The  poel 
spreads  the  colours  of  fancy,  the  illusions  of  his  own  mind, 
round  every  object,  ad  libitum  ;  the  prose-writer  is  compelled  to 
extract  his  materials  patiently  and  bit  by  bit,  from  his  subject. 
What  he  adds  of  ornament,  what  he  borrows  from  the  pencil, 
must  be  sparing,  and  judiciously  inserted.  The  first  pretends  to 
nothing  but  the  immediate  indulgence  of  his  feelings :  the  last 
has  a  remote  practical  purpose.  The  one  strolls  out  into  the 
adjoining  fields  or  groves  to  gather  flowers :  the  other  has  a 
journey  to  gc,  sometimes  through  dirty  roads,  and  at  others 
through  untrodden  and  difficult  ways.  It  is  this  effeminacy,  this 
immersion  in  sensual  ideas,  or  craving  after  continual  excite- 
ment,  that  spoils  the  poet  for  his  prose-tasks.     He  cannot  wait 


106  TABLE  TALK. 


till  the  effect  comes  of  itself,  or  arises  out  of  the  occasion :  ho 
must  force  it  upon  all  occasions,  or  his  spirit  droops  and  flags 
under  a  supposed  imputation  of  dullness.  He  can  never  drift 
with  the  current,  but  is  always  hoisting  sail,  and  has  his  stream- 
ers flying.  He  has  got  a  striking  simile  on  hand  ;  he  lugs  it  in 
with  the  first  opportunity,  and  with  little  connection,  and  so  de- 
feats his  object.  He  has  a  story  to  tell :  he  tells  it  in  the  first 
page,  and  where  it  would  come  in  well,  has  nothing  to  say ;  like 
Goldsmith,  who  having  to  wait  upon  a  Noble  Lord,  was  so  full 
of  himself  and  of  the  figure  he  should  make,  that  he  addressed 
a  set  speech,  which  he  had  studied  for  the  occasion,  to  his  Lord- 
ship's butler,  and  had  just  ended  as  the  nobleman  made  his  ap- 
pearance. The  prose  ornaments  of  the  poet  are  frequently 
beautiful  in  themselves,  but  do  not  assist  the  subject.  They  are 
pleasing  excrescences — hindrances,  not  helps  in  an  argument. 
The  reason  is,  his  embellishments  in  his  own  walk  grow  out  of 
the  subject  by  natural  association ;  that  is,  beauty  gives  birth  to 
kindred  beauty,  grandeur  leads  the  mind  on  to  greater  grandeur. 
But  in  treating  a  common  subject,  the  link  is  truth,  force  of  il- 
lustration, weight  of  argument,  not  a  graceful  harmony  in  the 
immediate  ideas ;  and  hence  the  obvious  and  habitual  clue  which 
before  guided  him  is  gone,  and  he  hangs  on  his  patchwork,  tinsel 
finery  at  random,  in  despair,  without  propriety  and  without 
effect.  The  poetical  prose-writer  stops  to  describe  an  object,  if 
he  admires  it,  or  thinks  it  will  bear  to  be  dwelt  on  :  the  genuine 
prose-writer  only  alludes  to  or  characterises  it  in  passing,  and 
with  reference  to  his  subject.  The  prose-writer  is  master  of  his 
materials :  the  poet  is  the  slave  of  his  style.  Every  thing 
showy,  every  thing  extraneous  tempts  him,  and  he  reposes  idly 
on  it :  he  is  bent  on  pleasure,  not  on  business.  He  aims  at 
effect,  at  captivating  the  reader,  and  yet  is  contented  with  com- 
mon-place ornaments,  rather  than  none.  Indeed,  this  last  result 
must  necessarily  follow,  where  there  is  an  ambition  to  shine, 
without  the  effort  to  dig  for  jewels  in  the  mine  of  truth.  The 
habits  of  a  poet's  mind  are  not  those  of  industry  or  research: 
his  images  come  to  him,  he  does  not  go  to  them ;  and  in  prose- 
subjects,  and  dry  matters  of  fact  and  close  reasoning,  the  natu- 
ral stimulus  that  at  other  times  warms  and  rouses,  deserts  hinj 


ON  THE  PROSE-STYLE  OF  POETS.  107 

altogether.  He  sees  no  unhallowed  visions,  he  is  inspired  by  no 
day-dreams.  All  is  tame,  literal,  and  barren,  without  the  Nine. 
Nor  does  he  collect  his  strength  to  strike  fire  from  the  flint  by 
the  sharpness  of  collision,  by  the  eagerness  of  his  blows.  He 
gathers  roses,  he  steals  colours  from  the  rainbow.  He  lives  on 
nectar  and  ambrosia.  He  "  treads  the  primrose  path  of  dal- 
liance," or  ascends  "  the  highest  heaven  of  invention,"  or  falls 
flat  to  the  ground.     He  is  nothing,  if  not  fanciful/ 

I  shall  proceed  to  explain  these  remarks,  as  well  as  I  can,  by 
a  few  instances  in  point. 

It  has  always  appeared  to  me  that  the  most  perfect  prose- 
style,  the  most  powerful,  the  most  dazzling,  the  most  daring,  that 
which  went  the  nearest  to  the  verge  of,  poetry,  and  yet  never  fell 
over,  was  Burke's.  It  has  the  solidity  and  sparkling  effect  of 
the  diamond  :  all  other  fine  writing  is  like  French  paste  or  Bris- 
tol-stones in  the  comparison.  Burke's  style  is  airy,  flighty,  ad- 
venturous, but  it  never  loses  sight  of  the  subject ;  nay,  is  always 
in  contact  with,  and  derives  its  increased  or  varying  impulse 
from  it.  It  may  be  said  to  pass  yawning  gulfs  "  on  the  unstead- 
fast  fitting  of  a  spear :"  still  it  has  an  actual  resting-place  and 
tangible  support  under  it — it  is  not  suspended  on  nothing.  It 
differs  from  poetry,  as  I  conceive,  like  the  chamois  from  the 
eagle  :  it  climbs  to  an  almost  equal  height,  touches  upon  a  cloud, 
overlooks  a  precipice,  is  picturesque,  sublime — but  all  the  while, 
instead  of  soaring  through  the  air,  it  stands  upon  a  rocky  cliff", 
clambers  up  by  abrupt  and  intricate  ways,  and  browzes  on  the 
roughest  bark,  or  crops  the  tender  flower.  The  principle  which 
guides  his  pen  is  truth,  not  beauty — not  pleasure,  but  power. 
He  has  no  choice,  no  selection  of  subject  to  flatter  the  reader's 
idle  taste,  or  assist  his  own  fancy :  he  must  take  what  comes, 
and  make  the  most  of  it.  He  works  the  most  striking  effects  out 
of  the  most  unpromising  materials,  by  the  mere  activity  of  his 
mind.  He  rises  with  the  lofty,  descends  with  the  mean,  luxuri- 
ates in  beauty,  gloats  over  deformity.  It  is  all  the  same  to  him, 
so  that  he  loses  no  particle  of  the  exact,  characteristic,  extreme 
impression  of  the  thing  he  writes  about,  and  that  he  communi- 
cates this  to  the  reader,  after  exhausting  every  possible  mode  of 
illustration,  plain  or  abstracted,  figurative  or  literal.     Whatever 

8 — PART   II. 


108  TABLE  TALK. 

stamps  the  original  image  more  distinctly  on  the  mind,  is  wel- 
come. The  nature  of  his  task  precludes  continual  beauty ;  but 
it  does  not  preclude  continual  ingenuity,  force,  originality.  He 
had  to  treat  of  political  questions,  mixed  modes,  abstract  ideas, 
and  his  fancy  (or  poetry,  if  you  will)  was  ingrafted  on  these  ar- 
tificially, and  as  it  might  sometimes  be  thought,  violently,  instead 
of  growing  naturally  out  of  them,  as  it  would  spring  of  its  own 
accord  from  individual  objects  and  feelings.  There  is  a  resist- 
ance in  the  matter  to  the  illustration  applied  to  it — the  concrete 
and  abstract  are  hardly  co-ordinate  ;  and  therefore  it  is  that, 
when  the  first  difficulty  is  overcome,  they  must  agree  more 
closely  in  the  essential  qualities,  in  order  that  the  coincidence 
may  be  complete.  Otherwise,  it  is  good  for  nothing ;  and  you 
justly  charge  the  author's  style  with  being  loose,  vague,  flaccid, 
and  imbecile.     The  poet  has  been  said 

"  To  make  us  heirs 
Of  truth  and  pure  delight  in  endless  lays." 

Not  so  the  prose-writer,  who  always  mingles  clay  with  his  gold, 
and  often  separates  truth  from  mere  pleasure.  He  can  orfiy  ar- 
rive at  the  last  through  the  first.  In  poetry,  one  pleasing  or  strik- 
ing image  obviously  suggests  another  :  the  increasing  the'  sense 
of  beauty  or  grandeur  is  the  principle  of  composition :  in  prose, 
the  professed  object  is  to  impart  conviction,  and  nothing  can  be 
admitted  by  way  of  ornament  or  relief,  that  does  not  add  new 
force  or  clearness  to  the  original  conception.  The  two  classes 
of  ideas  brought  together  by  the  orator  or  impassioned  prose- 
writer,  to  wit,  the  general  subject  and  the  particular  image,  are 
so  far  incompatible,  and  the  identity  must  be  more  strict,  more 
marked,  more  determinate,  to  make  them  coalesce  to  any  prac- 
tical purpose.  •  Every  word  should  be  a  blow :  every  thought 
should  instantly  grapple  with  its  fellow.  There  must  be  a  weight, 
a  precision,  a  conformity  from  association  in  the  tropes  and  figures 
of  animated  prose  to  fit  them  to  their  place  in  the  argument,  and 
make  them  tell,  which  may  be  dispensed  with  in  poetry,  where 
there  is  something  much  more  congenial  between  the  subject 
matter  and  the  illustration — 

"  Like  beauty  making  beautiful  old  rime !" 


ON  THE  PROSE-STYLE  OF  POETS.  109 

What  can  be  more  remote,  for  instance,  and  at  the  same  time 
more  apposite,  more  the  same,  than  the  following  comparison  of 
the  English  Constitution  to  "  the  proud  Keep  of  Windsor,"  in  the 
celebrated  Letter  to  a  Noble  Lord  ? 

"  Such  are  their  ideas ;  such  their  religion,  and  such  their  law. 
But  as  to  our  country  and  our  race,  as  long  as  the  well-compacted 
structure  of  our  church  and  state,  the  sanctuary,  the  holy  ot 
holies  of  that  ancient  law,  defended  by  reverence,  defended  by 
power — a  fortress  at  once  and  a  temple* — shall  stand  inviolate 
on  the  brow  of  the  British  Sion ;  as  long  as  the  British  mon- 
archy— not  more  limited  than  fenced  by  the  orders  of  the  State — 
shall,  like  the  proud  Keep  of  Windsor,  rising  in  the  majesty  of 
proportion,  and  girt  with  the  double  belt  of  its  kindred  and  coeval 
towers ;  as  long  as  this  awful  structure  shall  oversee  and  guard 
the  subjected  land,  so  long  the  mounds  and  dykes  of  the  low,  fat, 
Bedford  level  will  have  nothing  to  fear  from  all  the  pickaxes  of 
all  the  levellers  of  France.  As  long  as  our  Sovereign  Lord  the 
King,  and  his  faithful  subjects,  the  Lords  and  Commons  of  this 
realm — the  triple  cord  which  no  man  can  break ;  the  solemn, 
sworn,  constitutional  frank-pledge  of  this  nation  ;  the  firm  gua- 
rantees of  each  other's  being,  and  each  other's  rights  ;  the  joint 
and  several  securities,  each  in  its  place  and  order,  for  every  kind 
and  every  quality  of  property  and  of  dignity, — as  long  as  these 
endure,  so  long  the  Duke  of  Bedford  is  safe :  and  we  are  all 
safe  together — the  high  from  the  blights  of  envy  and  the  spolia- 
tions of  rapacity ;  the  low  from  the  iron  hand  of  oppression  and 
the  insolent  spurn  of  contempt.  Amen !  and  so  be  it :  and  so 
it  will  be, 

'Dum  domus  iEneae  Capitoli  immobile  axum 
Accolet;  imperiumque  pater  Roman  us  habebit.'  " 

Nothing  can  well  be  more  impracticable  to  a  simile  than  the 
vague  and  complicated  idea  which  is  here  embodied  in  one  ;  yet 
how  finely,  how  nobly  it  stands  out,  in  natural  grandeur,  in  royal 
state,  with  double  barriers  round  it  to  answer  for  its  identity,  with 
"  buttress   frieze   and  coigne  of  'vantage"  for  the  imagination  to 

*  "Templum  in  modum  arcis." 

Tacitus  of  the  Temple  of  Jerusalem. 


110  TABLE  TALK. 


rt  make  its  pendant  bed  and  procreant  cradle,"  till  the  idea  is  con- 
founded with  the  object  representing  it — the  wonder  of  a  kingdom; 
and  then  how  striking,  how  determined  the  descent,  "  at  one  fell 
swoop,"  to  the  "  low,  fat,  Bedford  level !"  Poetry  would  have 
been  bound  to  maintain  a  certain  decorum,  a  regular  balance  be- 
tween these  two  ideas ;  sterling  prose  throws  aside  all  such  idle 
respect  to  appearances,  and  with  its  pen,  like  a  sword,  "  sharp 
and  sweet,"  lays  open  the  naked  truth  !  The  poet's  Muse  is  like 
a  mistress,  whom  we  keep  only  while  she  is  young  and  beautiful, 
durante  bene  placito  ;  the  Muse  of  prose  is  like  a  wife,  whom  we 
take  during  life,  for  belter  for  worse.  Burke's  execution,  like  that 
of  all  good  prose,  savours  of  the  texture  of  what  he  describes,  and 
his  pen  slides  or  drags  over  the  ground  of  his  subject,  like  the 
painter's  pencil.  The  most  rigid  fidelity  and  the  most  fanciful 
extravagance  meet,  and  are  reconciled  in  his  pages.  I  never 
pass  Windsor  but  I  think  of  this  passage  in  Burke,  and  hardly 
know  to  which  I  am  indebted  most  for  enriching  my  moral  sense, 
that  or  the  fine  picturesque  stanza  in  Gray, 

"  From  Windsor's  heights  the  expanse  below 
Of  mead,  of  lawn,  of  wood  survey,"  &c. 

I  might  mention  that  the  so  much  admired  description  in  one 
of  the  India  speeches,  of  Hyder  Ally's  army  (I  think  it  is),  which 
"  now  hung  like  a  cloud  upon  the  mountain,  and  now  burst  upon 
the  plain  like  a  thunderbolt,"  would  do  equally  well  for  poetry 
or  prose.  It  is  a  bold  and  striking  illustration  of  a  naturally  im- 
pressive object.  This  is  not  the  case  with  the  Abbe  Sieyes's  far 
famed  "  pigeon-holes,"  nor  with  the  comparison  of  the  Duke  of 
Bedford  to  "  the  Leviathan,  tumbling  about  his  unwieldy  bulk  iu 
the  ocean  of  royal  bounty."  Nothing  here  saves  the  description 
but  the  force  of  the  invective  ;  the  startling  truth,  the  vehemence, 
the  remoteness,  the  aptitude,  the  perfect  peculiarity  and  coinci- 
dence of  the  allusion.  No  writer  would  ever  have  thought  of  K 
but  himself;  no  reader  can  ever  forget  it.  What  is  there  in  com- 
mon, one  might  say,  between  a  Peer  of  the  Realm  and  '  that 
<»ea-beast,"  of  those 

"Created  hugest  that  swim  the  ocean-stream  1" 


ON  THE  PROSE-STYLE  OF  POETS.  Ill 

\et  Buvke  has  knit  the  two  ideas  together,  and  no  man  can  put 
them  asunder.  No  matter  how  slight  and  precarious  the  con- 
nection, the  length  of  line  it  is  necessary  for  the  fancy  to  give  out 
in  keeping  hold  of  the  object  on  which  it  has  fastened,  he  seems 
to  have  "  put  his  hook  in  the  nostrils"  of  this  enormous  creature 
of  the  crown,  that  empurples  all  its  track  through  the  glittering 
expanse  of  a  profound  and  restless  imagination  ! 

In  looking  into  the  Iris  of  last  week,  I  find  the  following  pas- 
sages,  in  an  article  on  the  death  of  Lord  Castlereagh  : 

"  The  splendour  of  majesty  leaving  the  British  metropolis,  ca- 
reering along  the  ocean,  and  landing  in  the  capital  of  the  North, 
is  distinguished  only  by  glimpses  through  the  dense  array  of  clouds 
in  which  Death  hid  himself,  while  he  struck  down  to  the  dust  the 
stateliest  courtier  near  the  throne,  and  the  broken  train  of  which 
pursues  and  crosses  the  royal  progress  wherever  its  glories  are 
presented  to  the  eye  of  imagination.  .  \  .  .  .  . 

"  The  same  indefatigable  mind — a  mind  of  all  work — which 
thus  ruled  the  Continent  with  a  rod  of  iron,  the  sword — within 
the  walls  of  the  House  of  Commons  ruled  a  more  distracted  re- 
gion with  a  more  subtle  and  finely  tempered  weapon,  the  tongue ; 
and  truly,  if  this  was  the  only  weapon  his  Lordship  wielded  there, 
where  he  had  daily  to  encounter,  and  frequently  almost  alone, 
enemies  more  formidable  than  Bonaparte,  it  must  be  acknow- 
ledged that  he  achieved  greater  victories  than  Demosthenes  or 
Cicero  ever  gained  in  far  more  easy  fields  of  strife  ;  nay,  he 
wrought  miracles  of  speech,  outvying  those  miracles  of  song 
which  Orpheus  is  said  to  have  performed,  when  not  only  men 
and  brutes,  but  rocks,  woods,  and  mountains,  followed  the  sound 
of  his  voice  and  lyre 

"  But  there  was  a  worm  at  the  root  of  the  gourd  that  flourished 
over  his  head  in  the  brightest  sunshine  of  a  court ;  both  perished 
in  a  night,  and  in  the  morning,  that  which  had  been  his  glory  and 
his  shadow,  covered  him  like  a  shroud  ;  while  the  corpse,  not- 
withstanding all  his  honours,  and  titles,  and  offices,  lay  unmoved 
in  the  place  where  it  fell,  till  a  judgment  had  been  passed  upor 
him  which  the  poorest  peasant  escapes  when  he  dies  in  the  ordi. 
nary  course  or  nature." — Sheffield  Advertises,  August  20. 
1822. 


112  TABLE  TALK. 


This,  it  must  be  confessed,  is  very  unlike  Burke  :  yet  Mr. 
Montgomery  is  a  very  pleasing  poet,  and  a  strenuous  politician. 
The  whole  is  travelling  out  of  the  record,  and  to  no  sort  of  pur- 
pose. The  author  is  constantly  getting  away  from  the  impres- 
sion of  his  subject,  to  envelop  himself  in  a  cloud  of  images,  which 
weaken  and  perplex,  instead  of  adding  force  and  clearness  to  it. 
Provided  he  is  figurative,  he  does  not  care  how  commonplace  or 
irrelevant  the  figures  are,  and  he  wanders  on,  delighted  in  a 
labyrinth  of  words,  like  a  truant  school-boy,  who  is  only  glad  to 
have  escaped  from  his  task.  He  has  a  very  slight  hold  of  his 
subject,  and  is  tempted  to  let  it  go  for  any  fallacious  ornament  of 
style.  How  obscure  and  circuitous  is  the  allusion  to  "  the  clouds 
in  which  Death  hid  himself,  to  strike  down  the  stateliest  courtier 
near  the  throne  !"  How  hackneyed  is  the  reference  to  Demos- 
thenes and  Cicero,  and  how  utterly  quaint  and  unmeaning  is  the 
ringing  the  changes  upon  Orpheus  and  his  train  of  men,  beasts, 
woods,  rocks,  and  mountains  in  connection  with  Lord  Castlereagh  ! 
But  he  is  better  pleased  with  this  classical  fable  than  with  the 
death  of  the  Noble  Peer,  and  delights  to  dwell  upon  it,  to  however 
little  use.  So  he  is  glad  to  take  advantage  of  the  scriptural  idea 
of  a  gourd ;  not  to  enforce,  but  as  a  relief  to  his  reflections ;  and 
points  his  conclusion  with  a  puling  sort  of  common-place,  that  a 
peasant,  who  dies  a  natural  death,  has  no  Coroner's  Inquest  to 
sit  upon  him.  All  these  are  the  faults  of  the  ordinary  poetical 
style.  Poets  think  they  are  bound,  by  the  tenour  of  their  inden- 
tures to  the  Muses,  to  "  elevate  and  surprise"  in  every  line  ;  and 
not  having  the  usual  resources  at  hand  in  common  or  abstracted 
subjects,  aspire  to  the  end  without  the  means.  They  make,  or 
pretend,  an  extraordinary  interest  where  there  is  none.  They 
are  ambitious,  vain,  and  indolent — more  busy  in  preparing  idle 
ornaments,  which  they  take  their  chance  of  bringing  in  somehow 
or  other,  than  intent  on  eliciting  truths  by  fair  and  honest  inquiry. 
It  should  seem  as  if  they  considered  prose  as  a  sort  of  waiting 
maid  to  poetry,  that  could  only  be  expected  to  wear  her  mistress':* 
cast-off  finery.  Poets  have  been  said  to  succeed  best  in  fiction  ; 
and  the  account  here  given  may  in  part  explain  the  reason 
That  is  to  say,  they  must  choose  their  own  subject,  in  such  a 
manner  as  to  afford  them  continual  opportunities  of  appealing  to 


ON  THE  PROSE-STYLE  OF  POETS.  113 

the  senses  and  exciting  the  fancy.  Dry  details,  abstruse  specula, 
tions,  do  not  give  scope  to  vividness  of  description  ;  and,  as  the) 
cannot  bear  to  be  considered  dull,  they  become  too  often  affected, 
extravagant,  and  insipid. 

[  am  indebted  to  Mr.  Coleridge  for  the  comparison  of  poetic 
prose  to  the  second-hand  finery  of  a  lady's  maid  (just  made  use 
of.)  He  himself  is  an  instance  of  his  own  observation,  and  (what 
is  even  worse)  of  the  opposite  fault — an  affectation  of  quaintness 
and  originality.  With  bits  of  tarnished  lace  and  worthless  frip- 
pery, he  assumes  a  sweeping  oriental  costume,  or  borrows  the 
stiff"  dresses  of  our  ancestors,  or  starts  an  eccentric  fashion  of  his 
own.  He  is  swelling  and  turgid — everlastingly  aiming  to  be 
greater  than  his  subject ;  filling  his  fancy  with  fumes  and  vapours 
in  the  pangs  and  throes  of  miraculous  parturition,  and  bringing 
forth  only  still-births.  He  has  an  incessant  craving,  as  it  were, 
to  exalt  every  idea  into  a  metaphor,  to  expand  every  sentiment 
into  a  lengthened  mystery,  voluminous  and  vast,  confused  and 
cloudy.  His  style  is  not  succinct,  but  incumbered  with  a  train 
of  words  and  images  that  have  no  practical,  and  only  a  possible 
relation  to  one  another — that  add  to  its  stateliness,  but  impede  its 
march.  One  of  his  sentences  winds  its  "  forlorn  way  obscure" 
over  the  page  like  a  patriarchal  procession  with  camels  laden, 
wreathed  turbans,  household  wealth,  the  whole  riches  of  the 
author's  mind  poured  out  upon  the  barren  waste  of  his  subject. 
The  palm-tree  spreads  its  sterile  branches  over-head,  and  the  land 
of  promise  is  seen  in  the  distance.  All  this  is  owing  to  his  wish- 
ing to  overdo  every  thing — to  make  something  more  out  of  every 
thing  than  it  is,  or  than  it  is  worth.  The  simple  truth  does  not 
satisfy  him — no  direct  proposition  fills  up  the  moulds  of  his  under- 
standing. All  is  foreign,  far-fetched,  irrelevant,  laboured,  unpro- 
ductive. To  read  one  of  his  disquisitions  is  like  hearing  the 
variations  to  a  piece  of  music  without  the  score.  Or,  to  vary 
the  simile,  he  is  not  like  a  man  going  a  journey  by  the  stage- 
coach along  the  high-road,  but  is  always  getting  into  a  balloon, 
and  mounting  into  the  air,  above  the  plain  ground  of  prose. 
Whether  he  soars  to  the  empyrean,  or  dives  to  the  centre  (as  ho 
sometimes  does,)  it  is  equally  to  get  away  from  the  question 
before  him,  and  to  prove  that  he  owes  every  thing  to  his  own 


114  TABLE  TALK. 


mind.  His  object  is  to  invent ;  he  scorns  to  imitate.  The  busi- 
ness of  prose  is  the  contrary.  But  Mr.  Coleridge  is  a  poet,  and 
his  thoughts  are  free. 

I  think  the  poet-laureat  is  a  much  better  prose-writer.  His 
style  has  an  antique  quaintness,  with  a  modern  familiarity.  He 
has  just  a  sufficient  sprinkling  of  archaisms,  of  allusions  to  old 
Fuller,  and  Burton,  and  Latimer,  to  set  off  or  qualify  the  smart 
flippant  tone  of  his  apologies  for  existing  abuses,  or  the  ready, 
galling  virulence  of  his  personal  invectives.  Mr.  Southey  is  a 
faithful  historian,  and  no  inefficient  partizan.  In  the  former 
character,  his  mind  is  tenacious  of  facts ;  and  in  the  latter,  his 
spleen  and  jealousy  prevent  the  "  extravagant  and  erring  spirit" 
of  the  poet  from  losing  itself  in  Fancy's  endless  maze.  He 
"  stoops  to  earth,"  at  least,  and  prostitutes  his  pen  to  some  pur- 
pose (not  at  the  same  time  losing  his  own  soul,  and  gaining 
nothing  by  it) — and  he  vilifies  Reform,  and  praises  the  reign  of 
George  III.  in  good  set  terms,  in  a  straightforward,  intelligible, 
practical,  pointed  way.  He  is  not  buoyed  up  by  conscious 
power  out  of  the  reach  of  common  apprehensions,  but  makes  the 
most  of  the  obvious  advantages  he  possesses.  You  may  complain 
of  a  pettiness  and  petulance  of  manner,  but  certainly  there  is  no 
want  of  spirit  or  facility  of  execution.  He  does  not  waste  powder 
and  shot  in  the  air,  but  loads  his  piece,  takes  a  level  aim,  and 
hits  his  mark.  One  would  say  (though  his  Muse  is  ambidexter) 
that  he  wrote  prose  with  his  right  hand  ;  there  is  nothing  awk- 
ward, circuitous,  or  feeble  in  it.  "  The  words  of  Mercury  are 
harsh  after  the  songs  of  Apollo :"  but  this  would  not  apply  to 
him.  His  prose-lucubrations  are  pleasanter  reading  than  his 
poetry.  Indeed,  he  is  equally  practised  and  voluminous  in  both  ; 
and  it  is  not  improbable  conjecture,  that  Mr.  Southey  may  have 
had  some  idea  of  rivalling  the  reputation  of  Voltaire  in  the  extent, 
the  spirit,  and  the  versitality  of  his  productions  in  prose  and  verse, 
except  that  he  has  written  i  o  tragedies  but  Wat  Tyler  ! 

To  my  taste,  the  Author  of  Rimini,  and  Editor  of  the  Exami- 
ner, is  among  the  best  and  least  corrupted  of  our  poetical  prose- 
writers.  In  his  light  but  well  supported  columns  we  find  the 
raciness,  the  sharpness,  and  sparkling  effect  of  poetry,  with  little 
that  is  extravagant  or  far-fetched,  and  no  turgidity  or  pompous 


ON  THE  PROSE-STYLE  OF  POETS.  1?5 

pretension.  Perhaps  there  is  too  much  the  appearance  of  re- 
laxation and  trifling  (as  if  he  had  escaped  the  shackles  of  rhyme,) 
a  caprice,  a  levity,  and  a  disposition  to  innovate  in  words  and 
ideas.  Still  the  genuine  master-spirit  of  the  prose-writer  is  there  ; 
the  tone  of  lively,  sensible  conversation ;  and  this  may  in  part 
arise  from  the  author's  being  himself  an  animated  talker.  Mr. 
Hunt  wants  something  of  the  heat  and  earnestness  of  the  political 
partisan  ;  but  his  familiar  and  miscellaneous  papers  have  all  the 
ease,  grace,  and  point  of  the  best  style  of  Essay-writing.  Many 
of  his  effusions  in  the  Indicator  show,  that  if  he  had  devoted 
himself  exclusively  to  that  mode  of  writing,  he  inherits  more  of 
the  spirit  of  Steele  than  any  man  since  his  time. 

Lord  Byron's  prose  is  bad  ;  that  is  to  say,  heavy,  laboured, 
and  coarse  :  he  tries  to  knock  some  one  down  with  the  butt-end 
of  every  line,  which  defeats  his  object — and  the  style  of  the 
Author  of  Waverley  (if  he  comes  fairly  into  this  discussion)  as 
mere  style,  is  villanous.  It  is  pretty  plain  he  is  a  poet ;  for  the 
sound  of  names  runs  mechanically  in  his  ears,  and  he  rings  the 
changes  unconsciously  on  the  same  words  in  a  sentence,  like  the 
same  rhymes  in  a  couplet. 

Not  to  spin  out  this  discussion  too  much,  I  would  conclude  by 
observing,  that  some  of  the  old  English  prose-writers  (who  were 
not  poets)  are  the  best,  and,  at  the  same  time,  the  most  poetical  in 
the  favourable  sense.  Among  these  we  may  reckon  some  of  the 
old  divines,  and  Jeremy  Taylor  at  the  head  of  them.  There  is  a 
flush  like  the  dawn  over  his  writings  ;  the  sweetness  of  the  rose, 
the  freshness  of  the  morning  dew.  There  is  a  softness  in  his  style, 
proceeding  from  the  tenderness  of  his  heart :  but  his  head  is  firm, 
and  his  hand  is  free.  His  materials  are  as  finely  wrought  up  as 
they  are  original  and  attractive  in  themselves.  Milton's  prose- 
style  savours  too  much  of  poetry,  and,  as  I  have  already  hinted, 
of  an  imitation  of  the  Latin.  Dryden's  is  perfectly  unexception- 
able, and  a  model,  in  simplicity,  strength,  and  perspicuity,  for  the 
subjects  he  treated  of 


IIS  TABLE  TALK. 


ESSAY  XXV. 

On  the  Conversation  of  Authors. 

An  author  is  bound  to  write — well  or  ill,  wisely  or  foolishly :  it 
is  his  trade.  But  I  do  not  see  that  he  is  bound  to  talk,  any  more 
than  he  is  bound  to  dance,  or  ride,  or  fence  better  than  other  peo- 
ple. Reading,  study,  silence,  thought,  are  a  bad  introduction  to 
loquacity.  It  would  be  sooner  learnt  of  chambermaids  and  tapsters. 
He  understands  the  art  and  mystery  of  his  own  profession,  which 
is  book-making  :  what  right  has  any  one  to  expect  or  require  him 
to  do  more — to  make  a  bow  gracefully  on  entering  or  leaving  a 
room,  to  make  love  charmingly,  or  to  make  a  fortune  at  all  ?  In 
all  things  there  is  a  division  of  labour.  A  lord  is  no  less  amorous 
for  writing  ridiculous  love-letters,  nor  a  general  less  successful 
for  wanting  wit  and  honesty.  Why  then  may  not  a  poor  author 
say  nothing,  and  yet  pass  muster  ?  Set  him  on  the  top  of  a  stage- 
coach, he  will  make  no  figure  ;  he  is  mum-chance,  while  the  slang- 
wit  flies  about  as  fast  as  the  dust,  with  the  crack  of  the  whip  and 
the  clatter  of  the  horses'  heels :  put  him  in  a  ring  of  boxers,  he  is 
a  poor  creature — 

"  And  of  his  port  as  meek  as  is  a  maid." 

Introduce  him  to  a  tea-party  of  milliner's  girls,  and  they  are  ready 
to  split  their  sides  with  laughing  at  him  :  over  his  bottle,  he  is  dry : 
in  the  drawing-room  rude  or  awkward  :  he  is  too  refined  for  the 
vulgar,  too  clownish  for  the  fashionable  : — "  he  is  one  that  cannot 
make  a  good  leg,  one  that  cannot  eat  a  mess  of  broth  cleanly, 
one  that  cannot  ride  a  horse  without  spflr-galling,  one  that  cannot 
salute  a  woman,  and  look  on  her  directly  :" — in  courts,  in  camps, 
in  town  and  country,  he  is  a  cypher  or  a  butt :  he  is  good  for 
nothing  but  a  laughing-stock  or  a  scare-crow.  You  can  scarcely 
get  a  word  out  of  him  for  love  or  money.     He  knows  nothing. 


ON  THE  CONVERSATION  OF  AUTHORS.  117 

He  has  no  notion  of  pleasure  or  business,  or  of  what  is  going  on 
in  the  world ;  he  does  not  understand  cookery  (unless  he  it?  u 
doctor  in  divinity,)  nor  surgery,  nor  chemistry  (unless  he  is  a 
Quidnunc,)  nor  mechanics,  nor  husbandry  and  tillage  (unless  he 
is  as  great  an  admirer  of  TulPs  Husbandry,  and  has  profited  as 
much  by  it  as  the  philosopher  of  Botley) — no,  nor  music,  paint- 
ing, the  drama,  nor  the  fine  arts  in  general. 

"  What  the  deuce  is  it  then,  my  good  sir,  that  he  does  under- 
stand, or  know  any  thing  about  V 

«  BOOKS,  VENUS,  BOOKS  !" 

"  What  books !" 

"  Not  receipt-books,  Madona,  nor  account-books,  nor  books  of 
pharmacy,  or  the  veterinary  art  (they  belong  to  their  respective 
callings  and  handicrafts,)  but  books  of  liberal  taste  and  general 
knowledge." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that  general  knowledge  which  implies 
not  a  knowledge  of  things  in  general,  but  an  ignorance  (by  your 
own  account)  of  every  one  in  particular :  or  by  that  liberal  taste 
which  scorns  the  pursuits  and  acquirements  of  the  rest  of  the 
world  in  succession,  and  is  confined  exclusively,  and  by  way  of 
excellence,  to  what  nobody  takes  an  interest  in  but  yourself,  and  a 
few  idlers  like  yourself?  Is  this  what  the  critics  mean  by  the 
belles-lettres,  and  the  study  of  humanity  V' 

Book-knowledge,  in  a  word,  then,  is  knowledge  communicable 
by  books  ;  and  it  is  general  and  liberal  for  this  reason,  that  it  is 
intelligible  and  interesting  on  the  bare  suggestion.  That  to  which 
any  one  feels  a  romantic  attachment,  merely  from  finding  it  in  a 
book,  must  be  interesting  in  itself:  that  which  he  instantly  forms 
a  lively  and  entire  conception  of,  from  seeing  a  few  marks  and 
scratches  upon  paper,  must  be  taken  from  common  nature : 
that  which,  the  first  time  you  meet  with  it,  seizes  upon  the  atten- 
tion as  a  curious  speculation,  must  exercise  the  general  faculties 
of  the  human  mind.  There  are  certain  broader  aspects  of  society 
and  views  of  things  common  to  every  subject,  and  more  or  less 
cognizable  to  every  mind;  and  these  the  scholar  treats,  and  founds 
his  claim  to  general  attention  upon  them,  without  being  charge- 
able with  "pedantry.  The  minute  descriptions  of  fishing-tackle, 
:>f  baits  and  flies,  in  Walton's  Complete  Angler,  make  that  work 

14 


M8  TABLE  TALK 

a  great  favourite  with  sportsmen  :  the  alloy  of  an  amiable  hu- 
manity,  and  the  modest  bui  touching  descriptions  of  familiar 
incidents  and  rural  objects  scattered  through  it,  have  made  it  an 
equal  favourite  with  every  reader  of  taste  and  feeling.  Mon- 
taigne's Essays,  Dilworth's  Spelling  Book,  and  Fearn's  Treatise 
on  Contingent  Remainders,  are  all  equally  books,  but  not  equally 
adapted  for  all  classes  of  readers.  The  two  last  are  of  no  use 
but  to  school-masters  and  lawyers  :  but  the  first  is  a  work  we 
may  recommend  to  any  one  to  read  who  has  ever  thought  at  all, 
or  who  would  learn  to  think  justly  on  any  subject.  Persons  of 
different  trades  and  professions — the  mechanic,  the  shop-keeper, 
the  medical  practitioner,  the  artist,  &c,  may  all  have  great 
knowledge  and  ingenuity  in  their  several  vocations,  the  details  of 
which  will  be  very  edifying  to  themselves,  and  just  as  incompre- 
hensible to  their  neighbours  :  but  over  and  above  this  professional 
and  technical  knowledge,  they  must  be  supposed  to  have  a  stock 
of  common  sense  and  common  feeling  to  furnish  subjects  for  com- 
mon conversation,  or  to  give  them  any  pleasure  in  each  other's 
company.  It  is  to  this  common  stock  of  ideas,  spread  over  the 
surface,  or  striking  its  roots  into  the  very  centre  of  society,  that 
the  popular  writer  appeals,  and  not  in  vain  ;  for  he  finds  readers. 
It  is  of  this  finer  essence  of  wisdom  and  humanity,  "  ethereal 
mould,  sky-tinctured,"  that  books  of  the  better  sort  are  made. 
They  contain  the  language  of  thought.  It  must  happen  that,  in 
the  course  of  time  and  the  variety  of  human  capacity,  some  per- 
sons will  have  struck  out  finer  observations,  reflections,  and  sen- 
timents than  others.  These  they  have  committed  to  books  of 
memory,  have  bequeathed  as  a  lasting  legacy  to  posterity ;  and 
such  persons  have  become  standard  authors.  We  visit  at  the 
shrine,  drink  in  some  measure  of  the  inspiration,  and  cannot  easily 
"  breathe  in  other  air  less  pure,  accustomed  to  immortal  fruits." 
Are  we  to  be  blamed  for  this,  because  the  vulgar  and  illiterate 
do  not  always  understand  us  ?  The  fault  is  rather  in  them,  whc 
are  "  confined  and  cabin'd  in,"  each  in  their  own  particular 
sphere  and  compartment  of  ideas,  and  have  not  the  same  refined 
medium  of  communication  or  abstracted  topics  of  discourse. 
Bring  a  number  of  literary  or  of  illiterate  persons  together 
perfect  strangers  to  eac  h  other,  and  see  which  party  will  make 


ON  THE  CONVERSATION  OF  AUTHORS.  119 

the  best  company.  "  Verily,  we  have  our  "reward."  We  have 
made  our  election,  and  have  no  reason  to  repent  it,  if  we  were 
wise.  But  the  misfortune  is,  we  wish  to  have  all  the  advantages 
on  one  side.  We  grudge,  and  cannot  reconcile  it  to  ourselves, 
that  any  one  "  should  go  about  to  cozen  fortune,  without  ihe 
stamp  of  learning  !"  We  think  "  because  we  are  scholars,  there 
shall  be  no  more  cakes  and  ale  !"  We  don't  know  how  to  account 
for  it,  that  bar-maids  should  gossip,  or  ladies  whisper,  or  bullies 
roar,  or  fools  laugh,  or  knaves  thrive,  without  having  gone  through 
the  same  course  of  select  study  that  we  have  !  This  vanity  is 
preposterous,  and  carries  its  own  punishment  with  it.  Books  are 
a  world  in  themselves,  it  is  true  ;  but  they  are  not  the  only  world 
The  world  itself  is  a  volume  larger  than  all  the  libraries  in  it. 
Learning  is  a  sacred  deposit  from  the  experience  of  ages  ;  but  v 
has  not  put  all  future  experience  on  the  shelf,  or  debarred  the 
common  herd  of  mankind  from  the  use  of  their  hands,  tongues, 
ey^s,  ears,  or  understandings.  Taste  is  a  luxury  for  the  privi- 
leged few :  but  it  would  be  hard  upon  those  who  have  not  the, 
same  standard  of  refinement  in  their  own  minds  that  we  supposA 
ourselves  to  have,  if  this  should  prevent  them  from  having  re 
course,  as  usual,  to  their  old  frolics,  coarse  jokes,  and  horse-play 
and  getting  through  the  wear  and  tear  of  the  world,  with  sue! 
homely  sayings  and  shrewd  helps  as  they  may.  Happy  is  it, 
that  the  mass  of  mankind  eat  and  drink,  and  sleep,  and  perform 
their  several  tasks,  and  do  as  they  like  without  us — caring  nothing 
for  our  scribblings,  our  carpings,  and  our  quibbles ;  and  moving 
on  the  same,  in  spite  of  our  fine-spun  distinctions,  fantastic  theories, 
and  lines  of  demarcation,  which  are  like  the  chalk-figures  drawn 
on  ball-room  floors  to  be  danced  out  before  morning  !  In  the  field 
opposite  the  window  where  I  write  this,  there  is  a  country-girl 
picking  stones :  in  the  one  next  it,  there  are  several  poor  women 
weeding  the  blue  and  red  flowers  from  the  corn  :  farther  on,  are 
two  boys,  tending  a  flock  of  sheep.  What  do  they  know  or  care 
about  what  I  am  writing  about  them,  or  ever  will — or  what  would 
bey  be  the  better  for  it,  if  they  did  ?     Or  why  need  we  despise 

"  The  wretched  slave, 
Who  like  a  lackey,  from  the  rise  to  the  set, 
Sweats  in  the  eye  of  Phoebus,  and  all  night 
14 


120  TABLE  TALK. 


Sleeps  in  Elysium  ;  next  day,  after  dawn, 
Doth  rise,  and  help  Hyperion  to  his  horse ; 
And  follows  so  the  ever-running  year 
With  profitable  labour  to  his  grave  1" 

Is  not  this  life  as  sweet  as  writing  Ephemerides  ?  But  we  put 
that  which  flutters  the  brain  idly  for  a  moment,  and  then  is  heard 
no  more,  in  competition  with  nature,  which  exists  everywhere, 
and  lasts  always.  We  not  only  underrate  the  force  of  nature, 
and  make  too  much  of  art — but  we  also  overrate  our  own  accom- 
plishments and  advantages  derived  from  art.  In  the  presence  of 
clownish  ignorance,  or  of  persons  without  any  great  pretensions, 
real  or  affected,  we  are  very  much  inclined  to  take  upon  our- 
selves, as  the  virtual  representatives  of  science,  art,  and  litera- 
ture. We  have  a  strong  itch  to  show  off  and  do  the  honours  of 
civilization  for  all  the  great  men  whose  works  we  have  ever  read, 
and  whose  names  our  auditors  have  never  heard  of,  as  noblemen's 
lacqueys,  in  the  absence  of  their  masters,  give  themselves  airs  of 
superiority  over  every  one  else. — But  though  we  have  read  Con- 
greve,  a  stage  coachman  may  be  an  over-match  for  us  in  wit : 
though  we  are  deep-versed  in  the  excellence  of  Shakespear's 
colloquial  style,  a  village  beldam  may  outscold  us  :  though  we 
have  read  Machiavel  in  the  original  Italian,  we  may  be  easily 
outwitted  by  a  clown  :  and  though  we  have  cried  our  eyes  out 
over  the  New  Eloise,  a  poor  shepherd-lad,  who  hardly  knows  how 
to  spell  his  own  name,  may  "  tell  his  tale,  under  the  hawthorn  in 
the  dale,"  and  prove  a  more  thriving  wooer.  What  then  is  the 
advantage  we  possess  over  the  meanest  of  the  mean  1  Why 
this,  that  we  have  read  Congreve,  Shakespear,  Machiavel,  the 
New  Eloise  ; — not  that  we  are  to  have  their  wit,  genius,  shrewd- 
ness, or  melting  tenderness. 

From  speculative  pursuits  we  must  be  satisfied  with  speculative 
benefits.  From  reading,  too,  we  learn  to  write.  If  we  have  had 
the  pleasure  of  studying  the  highest  models  of  perfection  in  their 
kind,  and  can  hope  to  leave  any  thing  ourselves,  however  slight, 
to  be  looked  upon  as  a  model,  or  even  a  good  copy  in  its  way,  we 
may  think  ourselves  pretty  well  off,  without  engrossing  all  the 
privileges  of  learning,  ana  all  the  blessings  of  ignorance  into  the 
bargain. 


ON  THE  CONVERSATION  OF  AUTHORS.  121 

It  has  been  made  a  question  whether  there  have  not  been  in- 
dividuals in  common  life  of  greater  talents  and  powers  of  mind 
than  the  most  celebrated  writers — whether,  for  instance,  such  or 
such  a  Liverpool  merchant,  or  Manchester  manufacturer,  wap 
not  a  more  sensible  man  than  Montaigne,  of  a  longer  reach  of 
understanding  than  the  Viscount  of  St.  Albans.  There  is  no 
saying,  unless  some  of  these  illustrious  obscure  had  communi- 
cated their  important  discoveries  to  the  world.  But  then  they 
would  have  been  authors  ! — On  the  other  hand,  there  is  a  set  of 
critics  who  fall  into  the  contrary  error ;  and  suppose  that  unless 
the  proof  of  capacity  is  laid  before  all  the  world,  the  capacity 
itself  cannot  exist ;  looking  upon  all  those  who  have  not  com- 
menced authors,  as  literally  "  stocks  and  stones,  and  worse  than 
senseless  things."  ,  I  remember  trying  to  convince  a  person  of 
this  class  that  a  young  lady,  whom  he  knew  something  of,  the 
niece  of  a  celebrated  authoress,  had  just  the  same  sort  of  fine  tact 
and  ironical  turn  in  conversation,  that  her  relative  had  shown  in 
her  writings  when  young.  The  only  answer  I  could  get  was  an 
incredulous  smile,  and  the  observation  that  when  she  wrote  any 

thing  as  good  as ,  or ,  he  might  think  her  as  clever.     I 

said  all  I  meant  was,  that  she  had  the  same  family  talents,  and 

asked  whether  he  thought  that  if  Miss had  not  been  very 

clever,  as  a  mere  girl,  before  she  wrote  her  novels,  she  would 
eve j  have  written  them  ?  It  was  all  in  vain.  He  still  stuck  to 
his  text,  and  was  convinced  that  the  niece  was  a  little  fool  com- 
pared to  her  aunt  at  the  same  age  ;  and  if  he  had  known  the  aunt 
formerly,  he  would  have  had  just  the  same  opinion  of  her.  My 
friend  was  one  of  those  who  have  a  settled  persuasion  that  it  is  the 
book  that  makes  the  author,  and  not  the  author  the  book.  That's 
a  strange  opinion  for  a  great  philosopher  to  hold.  But  he  wilfully 
shuts  his  eyes  to  the  germs  and  indistinct  workings  of  genius, 
and  treats  them  with  supercilious  indifference,  till  they  stare  him 
in  the  face  through  the  press ;  and  then  takes  cognizance  only 
of  the  overt  acts  and  published  evidence.  This  is  neither  a 
proof  of  wisdom,  nor  the  way  to  be  wise.  It  is  partly  pedantry 
and  prejudice,  and  partly  feebleness  of  judgment  and  want  of 
magnanimity.  He  dare  as  little  commit  himself  on  the  character 
of  books,  as  of  individuals,  till  they  are  stamped  by  the  public. 


122  TABLE  TALK. 


If  you  show  him  any  work  for  his  approbation,  he  asks,  "  Whose 
is  the  superscription?" — He  judges  of  genius  by  its  shadow,  repu- 
tation— of  the  metal  by  the  coin.  He  is  just  the  reverse  of  ano- 
ther person  whom  I  know — for,  as  G never  allows  a  particle 

of  merit  to  any  one  till  it  is  acknowledged  by  the  whole  world, 

C withholds  his  tribute  of  applause  from  every  person,  in 

whom  any  mortal  but  himself  can  descry  the  least  glimpse  of  un- 
derstanding. He  would  be  thought  to  look  farther  into  a  millstone 
than  any  body  else.  He  would  have  others  see  with  his  eyes, 
and  take  their  opinions  from  him  on  trust,  in  spite  of  their  senses. 
The  more  obscure  and  defective  the  indications  of  merit,  the 
greater  his  sagacity  and  candour  in  being  the  first  to  point  them 
out.  He  looks  upon  what  he  nicknames  a  man  of  genius,  but  as 
the  breath  of  his  nostrils,  and  the  clay  in  the  potter's  hands.  If 
any  such  inert,  unconscious  mass,  under  the  fostering  care  of  the 
modern  Prometheus,  is  kindled  into  life, — begins  to  see,  speak, 
and  move,  so  as  to  attract  the  notice  of  other  people, — our  jealous 
patroniser  of  latent  worth  in  that  case  throws  aside,  scorns,  and 
hates  his  own  handiwork  ;  and  deserts  his  intellectual  offspring 
from  the  moment  they  can  go  alone  and  shift  for  themselves. — 
But  to  pass  on  to  our  more  immediate  subject. 

The  conversation  of  authors  is  not  so  good  as  might  be  ima- 
gined :  but,  such  as  it  is  (and  with  rare  exceptions)  it  is  better 
than  any  other.  The  proof  of  which  is,  that,  when  you  are 
used  to  it,  you  cannot  put  up  with  any  other.  That  of  mixed 
company  becomes  utterly  intolerable — you  cannot  sit  out  a  com- 
mon tea  and  card  party,  at  least,  if  they  pretend  to  talk  at  all. 
You  are  obliged  in  despair  to  cut  all  your  old  acquaintance  who 
are  not  au  fait  on  the  prevailing  and  most  smartly  contested 
topics,  who  are  not  imbued  with  the  high  gusto  of  criticism  and 
virtu.  You  cannot  bear  to  hear  a  friend  whom  you  have  not 
seen  for  many  years,  tell  at  how  much  a  yard  he  sells  his  laces 
and  tapes,  when  he  means  to  move  into  his  next  house,  when  he 
heard  last  from  his  relations  in  the  country,  whether  trade  is 
alive  or  dead,  or  whether  Mr.  Such-a-one  gets  to  look  old.  This 
3ort  of  neighbourly  gossip  will  not  go  down  after  the  high-raised 
tone  of  literary  conversation.  The  last  may  be  very  absurd, 
very  unsatisfactory,  and  full  of  turbulence  and  heart-burnings; 


ON  THE  CONVERSATION  OF  AUTHORS.  123 

but  it  has  a  zest  in  it  which  more  ordinary  topics  of  news  or 
family-affairs  do  not  supply.  Neither  will  the  conversation  of 
what  we  understand  by  gentlemen  and  men  of  fashion,  do  after 
that  of  men  of  letters.  It  is  flat,  insipid,  stale,  and  unprofitable 
in  the  comparison.  They  talk  about  much  the  same  things,  pic- 
tures, poetry,  politics,  plays;  but  they  do  it  worse,  and  at  a  sort 
of  vapid  secondhand.  They,  in  fact,  talk  out  of  newspapers 
and  magazines,  what  we  torite  there.  They  do  not  feel  the  same 
interest  in  the  subjects  they  affect  to  handle  with  an  air  of  fash- 
ionable condescension,  nor  have  they  the  same  knowledge  of 
them,  if  they  were  ever  so  much  in  earnest  in  displaying  it.  If 
it  were  not  for  the  wine  and  the  dessert,  no  author  in  his  senses 
would  accept  an  invitation  to  a  well-dressed  dinner-party,  except 
out  of  pure  good-nature  and  unwillingness  to  disoblige  by  his 
refusal.  Persons  in  high-life  talk  almost  entirely  by  rote.  There 
are  certain  established  modes  of  address,  and  certain  answers  to 
them  expected  as  a  matter  of  course,  as  a  point  of  etiquette. 
The  studied  forms  of  politeness  do  not  give  the  greatest  possible 
scope  to  an  exuberance  of  wit  or  fancy.  The  fear  of  giving 
offence  destroys  sincerity,  and  without  sincerity  there  can  be  no 
true  enjoyment  of  society,  nor  unfettered  exertion  of  intellectual 
activity.  Those  who  have  been  accustomed  to  live  with  the 
great  are  hardly  considered  as  conversible  persons  in  literary 
society.  They  are  not  to  be  talked  with,  any  more  than  puppets 
or  echos.  They  have  no  opinions  but  what  will  please  ;  and 
you  naturally  turn  away,  as  a  waste  of  time  and  words,  from 
attending  to  a  person  who  just  before  assented  to  what  you  said, 
and  whom  you  find,  the  moment  after,  from  something  that  un- 
expectedly or  perhaps  by  design  drops  from  him,  to  be  of  a  to- 
tally different  way  of  thinking.  This  hush-fighting  is  not  re- 
garded as  fair  play  among  scientific  men.  As  fashionable  con- 
versation is  a  sacrifice  to  politeness,  so  the  conversation  of  low- 
life  is  nothing  but  rudeness.  They  contradict  you  without  giving 
a  reason,  or  if  they  do,  it  is  a  very  bad  one — swear,  talk  loud, 
repeat  the  same  thing  fifty  times  over,  get  to  calling  names,  and 
from  words  proceed  to  blows.  You  cannot  make  companions  of 
servants,  or  persons  in  an  inferior  station  in  life.  You  may  talk 
to  them  on  matters  of  business,  and  what  they  have  to  do  for 

9 — PART   II. 


94  TABLE  TALK. 

you  (as  lords  talk  to  bruisers  on  subjects  of  fancy,  or  country, 
squires  to  their  grooms  on  horse-racing,)  but  out  of  that  narrow 
sphere,  to  any  general  topic,  you  cannot  lead  them ;  the  conver- 
sation soon  flags,  and  you  go  back  to  the  old  question,  or  are 
obliged  to  break  up  the  sitting  for  want  of  ideas  in  common. 
The  conversation  of  authors  is  better  than  that  of  most  profes- 
sions. It  is  better  than  that  of  lawyers,  who  talk  nothing  but 
double  entendre — than  that  of  physicians,  who  talk  of  the  ap- 
proaching deaths  of  the  College,  or  the  marriage  of  some  new 
practitioner  with  some  rich  widow — than  that  of  divines,  who 
talk  of  the  last  place  they  dined  at — than  that  of  University- 
men,  who  make  stale  puns,  repeat  the  refuse  of  the  London 
newspapers,  and  affect  an  ignorance  of  Greek  and  mathematics 
— it  is  better  than  that  of  players,  who  talk  of  nothing  but  the 
green-room,  and  rehearse  the  scholar,  the  wit,  or  the  fine  gen- 
tleman, like  a  part  on  the  stage — or  than  that  of  ladies,  who, 
whatever  you  talk  of,  think  of  nothing,  and  expect  you  to  think 
of  nothing,  but  themselves.  It  is  not  easy  to  keep  up  a  conver- 
sation with  women  in  company.  It  is  thought  a  piece  of  rude- 
ness to  differ  from  them :  it  is  not  quite  fair  to  ask  them  a  reason 
for  what  they  say.  You  are  afraid  of  pressing  too  hard  upon 
them  :  but  where  you  cannot  differ  openly  and  unreservedly,  you 
cannot  heartily  agree.  It  is  not  so  iii  France.  There  the  wo- 
men talk  of  things  in  general,  and  reason  better  than  the  men 
in  this  country.  They  are  mistresses  of  the  intellectual  foils. 
They  are  adepts  in  all  the  topics.  They  know  what  is  to  be 
said  for  and  against  all  sorts  of  questions,  and  are  lively  and  full 
of  mischief  into  the  bargain.  They  are  very  subtle.  They  put 
you  to  your  trumps  immediately.  Your  logic  is  more  in  requi- 
sition even  than  your  gallantry.  You  must  argue  as  well  as 
bow  yourself  into  the  good  graces  of  these  modern  Amazons. 
What  a  situation  for  an  Englishman  to  be  placed  in  !* 

The  fault  of  literary  conversation  in  general  is  its  too  great  te- 

*  The  topics  of  metaphysical  argument  having  got  into  female  society  in 
France,  is  a  proof  how  much  they  must  have  been  discussed  there  generally, 
and  how  unfounded  the  charge  is  which  we  bring  against  them  of  excessive 
thoughtlessness  and  frivolity.  The  French  (taken  all  together)  are  a  more 
sensible,  reflecting,  and  better  informed  people  than  the  English. 


ON  THE  CONVERSATION  OF  AUTHORS.  125 

naciousness  It  fastens  upon  a  subject,  and  will  not  let  it  go. 
It  resembles  a  battle  rather  than  a  skirmish,  and  makes  a  toil  of  a 
pleasure.  Perhaps  it  does  this  from  necessity,  from  a  conscious- 
ness of  wanting  the  more  familiar  graces,  the  power  to  sport  and 
trifle,  to  touch  lightly  and  adorn  agreeably,  every  view  or  turn 
of  a  question  en  passant,  as  it  arises.  Those  who  have  a  reputa- 
tion to  lose  are  too  ambitious  of  shining,  to  please.  "  To  excel 
in  conversation,"  said  an  ingenious  man,  "  one  must  not  be  al- 
ways striving  to  say  good  things  :  to  say  one  good  thing,  one 
must  say  many  bad,  and  more  indifferent  ones."  This  desire  to 
shine  without  the  means  at  hand,  often  makes  men  silent : — 

"  The  fear  of  being  silent  strikes  us  dumb." 

A  writer  who  has  been  accustomed  to  take  a  connected  view  of 
a  difficult  question,  and  to  work  it  out  gradually  in  all  its  bear- 
ings, may  be  very  deficient  in  that  quickness  and  ease  which 
men  of  the  world,  who  are  in  the  habit  of  hearing  a  variety  of 
opinions,  who  pick  up  an  observation  on  one  subject,  and  another 
on  another,  and  who  care  about  none  any  farther  than  the  passing 
away  of  an  idle  hour,  usually  acquire.  An  author  has  studied 
a  particular  point — he  has  read,  he  has  inquired,  he  has  thought 
a  great  deal  upon  it :  he  is  not  contented  to  take  it  up  casually 
in  common  with  others,  to  throw  out  a  hint,  to  propose  an  objec- 
tion :  he  will  either  remain  silent,  uneasy,  and  dissatisfied,  or  he 
will  begin  at  the  beginning  and  go  through  with  it  to  the  end. 
He  is  for  taking  the  whole  responsibility  upon  himself.  He 
would  be  thought  to  understand  the  subject  better  than  others,  or 
indeed  would  show  that  nobody  else  knows  any  thing  about  it. 
There  are  always  three  or  four  points  on  which  the  literary  no- 
vice at  his  first  outset  in  life  fancies  he  can  enlighten  every  com- 
pany, and  bear  down  all  opposition :  but  he  is  cured  of  this  Quix- 
otic and  pugnacious  spirit,  as  he  goes  more  into  the  world,  where 
he  finds  that  there  are  other  opinions  and  other  pretensions  to  be 
adjusted  besides  his  own.  When  this  asperity  wears  off,  and  a 
certain  scholastic  precocity  is  mellowed  down,  the  conversation 
of  men  of  letters  becomes  both  interesting  and  instructive.  Men 
of  the  world  have  no  fixed  principles,  no  ground- work  of  thought : 
mere  scholars  have  too  much  an  object,  a  theory  always  in  view, 

14* 


126  TABLE  TALK. 


to  which  they  wrest  every  thing,  and  not  unfrequently,  common 
sense  itself.  By  mixing  with  society,  they  rub  off  their  hardness 
of  manner,  and  impracticable,  offensive  singularity,  while  they 
retain  a  greater  depth  and  coherence  of  understanding.  There 
is  more  to  be  learnt  from  them  than  from  their  booko.  This  wa? 
a  remark  of  Rousseau's,  and  it  is  a  very  true  one.  In  the  con- 
fidence and  unreserve  of  private  intercourse,  they  are  more  al 
liberty  to  say  what  they  think,  to  put  the  subject  in  different  and 
opposite  points  of  view,  to  illustrate  it  more  briefly  and  pithily 
by  familiar  expressions,  by  an  appeal  to  individual  character  and 
personal  knowledge — to  bring  in  the  limitation,  to  obviate  mis- 
conception, to  state  difficulties  on  their  own  side  of  the  argument, 
and  answer  them  as  well  as  they  can.  This  would  hardly  agree 
with  the  prudery,  and  somewhat  ostentatious  claims  of  author- 
ship. Dr.  Johnson's  conversation  in  Boswell's  Life  is  much  bet- 
ter than  his  published  works  :  and  the  fragments  of  the  opinions 
of  celebrated  men,  preserved  in  their  letters  or  in  anecdotes  of 
them,  are  justly  sought  after  as  invaluable  for  the  same  reason. 
For  instance,  what  a  fund  of  sense  there  is  in  Grimm's  Memoirs  ! 
We  thus  get  at  the  essence  of  what  is  contained  in  their  more 
laboured  productions,  without  the  affectation  or  formality. — Ar- 
gument, again,  is  the  death  of  conversation,  if  carried  on  in  a 
spirit  of  hostility  :  but  discussion  is  a  pleasant  and  profitable 
thing,  where  you  advance  and  defend  your  opinions  as  far  as 
you  can,  and  admit  the  truth  of  what  is  objected  against  them 
with  equal  impartiality  ;  in  short,  where  you  do  not  pretend  to 
set  up  for  an  oracle,  but  freely  declare  what  you  really  know 
about  any  question,  or  suggest  what  has  struck  you  as  throwing 
a  new  light  upon  it,  and  let  it  pass  for  what  it  is  worth.  This 
tone  of  conversation  was  well  described  by  Dr.  Johnson,  when 
he  said  of  some  party  at  which  he  had  been  present  the  night 
before — "  We  had  good  talk,  sir !"  As  a  general  rule,  there  is 
no  conversation  worth  any  thing  but  between  friends,  or  those 
who  agree  in  the  same  leading  views  of  a  subject.  Nothing  was 
ever  learnt  by  either  side  in  a  dispute.  You  contradict  one 
another,  will  not  allow  a  grain  of  sense  in  what  your  adversary 
advances,  are  blind  to  whatever  makes  against  yourself,  dare  not 
look  the  question  fairly  in  the  face,  so  that  you  cannot  avail 


ON  THE  CONVERSATION  OP  AUTHORS  127 

yourself  even  of  your  real  advantages,  insist  most  on  what  you 
feel  to  be  the  weakest  points  of  your  argument,  and  get  more 
and  more  absurd,  dogmatical,  and  violent  every  moment.  Dis- 
putes for  victory  generally  end  to  the  dissatisfaction  of  all  par- 
ties; and  the  one  recorded  in  Gil  Bias  breaks  up  just  as  it  ought. 
I  once  knew  a  very  ingenious  man,  than  whom,  to  take  him  in 
the  way  of  common  chit-chat  or  fireside  gossip,  no  one  could  be 
more  entertaining  or  rational.  He  would  make  an  apt  classical 
quotation,  propose  an  explanation  of  a  curious  passage  in  Shake- 
spear's  Venus  and  Adonis,  detect  a  metaphysical  error  in  Locke, 
would  infer  the  volatility  of  the  French  character  from  the  chap- 
ter in  Sterne  where  the  Count  mistakes  the  feigned  name  of  Yorick 
for  a  proof  of  his  being  the  identical  imaginary  character  in 
Hamlet  (Et  vous  etes  Yorick  /) — thus  confounding  words  with 
things  twice  over — but  let  a  difference  of  opinion  be  once  hitched 
in,  and  it  was  all  over  with  him.  His  only  object  from  that  time 
was  to  shut  out  common  sense,  and  to  be  proof  against  convic- 
tion. He  would  argue  the  most  ridiculous  point  (such  as  that 
there  were  two  original  languages)  for  hours  together,  nay,  through 
the  horologe.  You  would  not  suppose  it  was  the  same  person. 
He  was  like  an  obstinate  run-away  horse,  that  takes  the  bit  in  his 
mouth,  and  becomes  mischievous  and  unmanageable.  He  had 
made  up  his  mind  to  one  thing,  not  to  admit  a  single  particle  of 
what  any  one  else  said  for  or  against  him.  It  was  all  the  differ- 
ence between  a  man  drunk  or  sober,  sane  or  mad.  It  is  the  same 
when  he  once  gets  the  pen  in  his  hand.  He  has  been  trying  to 
prove  a  contradiction  in  terms  for  the  ten  last  years  of  his  life, 
viz.  that  the  Bourbons  have  the  same  right  to  the  throne  of  France 
that  the  Brunswick  family  have  to  the  throne  of  England. 
Many  people  think  there  is  a  want  of  honesty  or  want  of  under- 
standing in  this.  There  is  neither.  But  he  will  persist  in  an  ar- 
gument to  the  last  pinch ;  he  will  yield,  in  absurdity,  to  no  man  ! 
This  litigious  humour  is  bad  enough  :  but  there  is  one  charac- 
ter still  worse,  that  of  a  person  who  goes  into  company,  not  to 
contradict,  but  to  talk  at  you.  This  is  the  greatest  nuisance  in 
civilized  society.  Such  a  person  does  not  come  armed  to  defend 
himself  at  all  points,  but  to  unsettle,  if  he  can,  and  throw  a  slur 
on  all  your  favourite  opinions.     If  he  has  a  notion  that  any  one 


128  TABLE  TALK. 


in  the  room  is  fond  of  poetry,  he  immediately  volunteers  a  con 
ternptuous  tirade  against  the  idle  jingle  of  verse.  If  he  suspects 
you  have  a  delight  in  pictures,  he  endeavours,  not  by  fair  argu- 
ment, but  by  a  side-wind,  to  put  you  out  of  conceit  with  so  frivo- 
lous an  art.  If  you  have  a  taste  for  music,  he  does  not  think 
much  good  is  to  be  done  by  this  tickling  of  the  ears.  If  you 
speak  in  praise  of  a  comedy,  he  does  not  see  the  use  of  wit :  if 
you  say  you  have  been  to  a  tragedy,  he  shakes  his  head  at  this 
mockery  of  human  misery,  and  thinks  it  ought  to  be  prohibited. 
He  tries  to  find  out  beforehand  whatever  it  is  that  you  take  a  par- 
ticular pride  or  pleasure  in,  that  he  may  annoy  your  self-love  in 
the  tenderest  point  (as  if  he  were  probing  a  wound)  and  make 
you  dissatisfied  with  yourself  and  your  pursuits  for  several  days 
afterwards.  A  person  might  as  well  make  a  practice  of  throwing 
out  scandalous  aspersions  against  your  dearest  friends  or  nearest 
relations,  by  way  of  ingratiating  himself  into  your  favour.  Such 
ill-timed  pertinence  is  "  villainous,  and  shows  a  pitiful  ambition 
in  the  fool  that  uses  it." 

The  soul  of  conversation  is  sympathy. — Authors  should  con. 
verse  chiefly  with  authors,  and  their  talk  should  be  of  books. 
"  When  Greek  meets  Greek,  then  comes  the  tug  of  war."  There 
is  nothing  so  pedantic  as  pretending  not  to  be  pedantic.  No  man 
can  get  above  his  pursuit  in  life  :  it  is  getting  above  himself, 
which  is  impossible.  There  is  a  Free-masonry  in  all  things. 
You  can  only  speak  to  be  understood,  but  this  you  cannot  be,  ex- 
cept by  those  who  are  in  the  secret.  Hence  an  argument  has 
been  drawn  to  supersede  the  necessity  of  conversation  altogether ; 
for  it  has  been  said,  that  there  is  no  use  in  talking  to  people  of 
sense,  who  know  all  that  you  can  tell  them,  nor  to  fools,  who  will 
not  be  instructed.  There  is,  however,  the  smallest  encourage- 
ment to  proceed,  when  you  are  conscious  that  the  more  you  really 
enter  into  a  subject,  the  farther  you  will  be  from  the  comprehen- 
sion of  your  hearers — and  that  the  more  proofs  you  give  of  any 
position,  the  more  odd  and  out-of-the-way  they  will  think  your 
notions.  Coleridge  is  the  only  person  who  can  talk  to  all  sorts 
of  people,  on  all  sorts  of  subjects,  without  caring  a  farthing  for 
their  understanding  one  word  he  says — and  he  talks  only  for  ad- 
miration and  to  be  listened  to,  and   accordingly  the   least  inter- 


ON  THE  CONVERSATION  OF  AUTHORS.  139 

ruption  puts  him  out.  I  firmly  believe  he  would  make  just  the 
same  impression  on  half  his  audiences,  if  he  purposely  repeated 
absolute  nonsense  with  the  same  voice  and  manner  and  inex- 
haustible flow  of  undulating  speech  !  In  general,  wit  shines  only 
by  reflection.  You  must  take  your  cue  from  your  company — 
must  rise  as  they  rise,  and  sink  as  they  fall.  You  must  see  that 
your  good  things,  your  knowing  allusions,  are  not  flung  away, 
like  the  pearls  in  the  adage.  What  a  check  it  is  to  be  asked  a 
foolish  question ;  to  find  that  the  first  principles  are  not  under- 
stood !  You  are  thrown  on  your  back  immediately,  the  conver- 
sation is  stopped  like  a  country-dance  by  those  who  do  not  know 
the  figure.  But  when  a  set  of  adepts,  of  illuminati,  get  about  a 
question,  it  is  worth  while  to  hear  them  talk.  They  may  snarl 
and  quarrel  over  it,  like  dogs ;  but  they  pick  it  bare  to  the  bone, 
they  masticate  it  thoroughly. 


ISO  TAELE  TALK. 


ESSAY  XXVI. 

The  same  subject  continued. 

This  was  the  case  formerly  at  L 's,  where  we  used  to  have 

many  lively  skirmishes  at  their  Thursday  evening  parties.  1 
doubt  whether  the  Small-coal  man's  musical  parties  could  exceed 
them.     Oh !    for  the  pen  of  John  Buncle  to  consecrate  a  petit 

souvenir  to  their  memory  !     There  was  L himself,  the  most 

delightful,  the  most  provoking,  the  most  witty  and  sensible  of 
men.  He  always  made  the  best  pun,  and  the  best  remark  in  the 
course  of  the  evening.  His  serious  conversation,  like  his  serious 
writing,  is  his  best.  No  one  ever  stammered  out  such  fine,  pi- 
quant, deep,  eloquent  things  in  half  a  dozen  half-sentences  as  he 
does.  His  jests  scald  like  tears :  and  he  probes  a  question  with 
a  play  upon  words.  What  a  keen,  laughing,  hair-brained  vein 
of  home-felt  truth !  What  choice  venom  !  How  often  did  we 
cut  into  the  haunch  of  letters,  while  we  discussed  the  haunch  of 
mutton  on  the  table  !  How  we  skimmed  the  cream  of  criticism  ! 
How  we  got  into  the  heart  of  controversy  !  How  we  picked  out 
the  marrow  of  authors  !  "  And,  in  our  flowing  cups,  many  a 
good  name  and  true  was  freshly  remembered."  Recollect  (most 
sage  and  critical  reader)  that  in  all  this  I  was  but  a  guest ! 
Need  I  go  over  the  names  ?  They  were  but  the  old  everlasting 
set — Milton  and  Shakespear,  Pope  and  Dryden,  Steele  and  Addi- 
son, Swift  and  Gay,  Fielding,  Smollet,  Sterne,  Richardson,  Ho- 
garth's prints,  Claude's  landscapes,  the  Cartoons  at  Hampton- 
court,  and  all  those  things,  that,  having  once  been,  must  ever 
be.  The  Scotch  Novels  had  not  then  been  heard  of:  so  we  said 
nothing  about  them..  In  general,  we  were  hard  upon  tho 
moderns.  The  author  of  the  Rambler  was  only  tolerated  in 
Boswell's  Life  of  him ;  and  it  was  as  much  as  any  one  could  do 
to  edge  in  a  word  for  Junius.     L could  not  bear  Gil  Bias. 


ON  THE  CONVERSATION  OF  AUTHORS.  131 

This  was  a  fault.  I  remember  the  greatest  triumph  I  ever  haa 
was  in  persuading  him,  after  some  years'  difficulty,  that  Fielding 
was  better  than  Smollet.  On  one  occasion,  he  was  for  making 
out  a  list  of  persons  famous  in  history  that  one  would  wish  to  see 
again — at  the  head  of  whom  were  Pontius  Pilate,  Sir  Thomas 
Browne,  and  Dr.  Faustus — but  we  black-balled  most  of  his  list ! 
But  with  what  a  gusto-would  he  describe  his  favourite  authors, 
Donne,  or  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  and  call  their  most  crabbed  passages 
delicious!  He  tried  them  on  his  palate  as  epicures  taste  olives, 
and  his  observations  had  a  smack  in  them,  like  a  roughness  on 
the  tongue.  With  what  discrimination  he  hinted  a  defect  in 
what  he  admired  most — as  in  saying  that  the  display  of  the 
sumptuous  banquet  in  Paradise  Regained  was  not  in  true  keep- 
ing, as  the  simplest  fare  was  all  that  was  necessary  to  tempt  the 
extremity  of  hunger — and  stating  that  Adam  and  Eve  in  Para- 
dise Lost  were  too  much  like  married  people.     He  has  furnished 

many  a  text  for  C to  preach  upon.     There  was  no  fuss  or 

cant  about  him  :  nor  were  his  sweets  or  his  sours  ever  diluted 
with  one  particle  of  affectation.  I  cannot  say  that  the  party  at 
L 's  were  all  of  one  description.  There  were  honorary  mem- 
bers, lay-brothers.  Wit  and  good-fellowship  was  the  motto  in- 
scribed over  the  door.  When  a  stranger  came  in,  it  was  not 
asked,  "Has  he  written  any  thing?" — we  were  above  that 
pedantry ;  but  we  waited  to  see  what  he  could  do.  If  he  could 
take  a  hand  at  piquet,  he  was  welcome  to  sit  down.  If  a  person 
liked  any  thing,  if  he  took  snuff  heartily,  it  was  sufficient.  He 
would  understand,  oy  analogy,  the  pungency  of  other  things, 
besides  Irish  blackguard,  or  Scotch  rappee.  A  character  was 
good  any-where,  in  a  room  or  on  paper.  But  we  abhorred  insi- 
pidity, affectation,  and  fine  gentlemen.  There  was  one  of  our 
party  who  never  failed  to  mark  "  two  for  his  Nob"  at  cribbage, 

and   he  was  thought  no  mean   person.     This  was  Ned  P , 

and  a  better  fellow  in  his  way  breathes  not.     There  was , 

who  asserted  some  incredible  matter-of-fact  as  a  likely  para- 
ox,  and  settled  all  controversies  by  an  ipse  dixit,  a  fiat  of  his 
will,  hammering  out  many  a  hard  theory  on  the  anvil  of  iiis 
Drain — the  Baron  Munchausen  of  politics  and  practical  philoso* 
phy : — there  was  Captain ,  \t  ho  had  you  at  an  advantage 


ISi  TABLE  TALK. 


by  never  understanding  you  : — there  was  Jem  White,  the  author 
of  Falstaff's  Letters,  who  the  other  day  left  this  dull  world  to  go 
in  search  of  more  kindred  spirits,  "  turning  like  the  latter  end 

of  a  lover's  lute :" — there  was  A ,  who  sometimes  dropped 

in,  the  Will  Honeycomb  of  our  set — and  Mrs.  R ,  who  being 

of  a  quiet  turn,  loved  to  hear  a  noisy  debate.  An  utterly  unin- 
formed person  might  have  supposed  this  a  scene  of  vulgar  con- 
fusion and  uproar.  While  the  most  critical  question  was  pend- 
ing, while  the  most  difficult  problem  in  philosophy  was  solving, 
P cried  out,  "  That's  game,"  and  M.  B.  muttered  a  quo- 
tation over  the  last  remains  of  a  veal-pie  at  a  side-table.  Once, 
and  once  only,  the  literary  interest  overcame  the  general.     For 

C was  riding  the  high  German  horse,  and  demonstrating  the 

Categories  of  the  Transcendental  philosophy  to  the  author  of 
the  Road  to  Ruin ;  who  insisted  on  his  knowledge  of  German, 
and  German  metaphysics,   having  read  the   Critique  of  Pure 

Reason  in  the  original.     "  My  dear  Mr.  Holcroft,"  said  C , 

in  a  tone  of  infinitely  provoking  conciliation,  "you  really  put 
me  in  mind  of  a  sweet  pretty  German  girl,  about  fifteen,  that  I 
met  with  in  the  Hartz  forest  in  Germany — and  who  one  day,  as 
I  was  reading  the  Limits  of  the  Knowable  and  the  Unknowable, 
the  profoundest  of  all  his  works,  with  great  attention,  came  be- 
hind my  chair,  and  leaning  over,  said,  '  What,  you  read  Kant  ? 
Why,  I  that  am  a  German  born,  don't  understand  him  !'  "  This 
was  too  much  to  bear,  and  Holcrcft,  starting  up,  called  out  in  no 

measured  tone,    "  Mr.  C ,  you  are  the  most  eloquent  man  I 

ever  met  with,  and  the  most  troublesome  with  your  eloquence  !" 
P held  the  cribbage-peg  that  was  to  mark  him  game,  sus- 
pended in  his  hand ;  and  the  whist  table  was  silent  for  a  mo- 
ment. I  saw  Holcroft  down-stairs,  and,  on  coming  to  the  landing 
place  in  Mitre-court,  he  stopped  me  to  observe,  that  "  he  thought 

Mr.  C a  very  clever  man,  with  a  great  command  of  language, 

but  that  he  feared  he  did  not  always  affix  very  precise  ideas  to 
the  words  he  used."  After  he  was  gone,  we  had  our  laugh  out, 
and  went  on  with  the  argument  on  the  nature  of  Reason,  the 
Imagination,  and  the  Will.  I  wish  I  could  find  a  publisher  for 
it .  it  would  make  a  supplement  to  the  Biographia  Literaria  in  a 
volume  and  a  half  octavo. 


ON  THE  CONVERSATION  OF  AUTHORS.  133 

Those  days  are  over !  An  event,  the  name  of  which  I  wish 
never  to  nention,  broke'up  our  party,  like  a  bomb-shell  thrown 
into  the  1  :>om  :    and  now  we  seldom  meet 

"  Like  angels'  visits,  short  and  far  between." 

There  is  no  longer  the  same  set  of  persons,  nor  of  associations. 

L does  not  live  where  he  did.     By  shifting  his  abode,  his 

notions  seem  less  fixed.  He  does  not  wear  his  old  snuff-coloured 
coat  and  breeches.  It  looks  like  an  alteration  in  his  style.  An 
author  and  a  wit  should  have  a  separate  costume,  a  particular 
cloth  :  he  should  present  something  positive  and  singular  to  the 
mind,  like  Mr.  Douce  of  the  Museum.  Our  faith  in  the  religion 
of  letters  will  not  bear  to  be  taken  to  pieces,  and  put  together 
again  by  caprice  or  accident.  Leigh  Hunt  goes  there  sometimes. 
He  has  a  fine  vinous  spirit  about  him,  and  tropical  blood  in  his 
veins  :  but  he  is  better  at  his  own  table.  He  has  a  great  flow 
of  pleasantry  and  delightful  animal  spirits :  but  his  hits  do  not 
tell  like  L 's  ;  you  cannot  repeat  them  the  next  day.  He  re- 
quires not  only  to  be  appreciated,  but  to  have  a  select  circle  of 
admirers  and  devotees,  to  feel  himself  quite  at  home.  He  sits 
at  the  head  of  a  party  with  great  gaiety  and  grace  ;  has  an  ele- 
gant manner  and  turn  of  features  ;  is  never  at  a  loss — aliquando 
sufflaminandus  erat — has  continual  sportive  sallies  of  wit  or  fancy  ; 
tells  a  story  capitally  ;  mimics  an  actor,  or  an  acquaintance,  to 
admiration ;  laughs  with  great  glee  and  good  humour  at  his  own 
or  other  people's  jokes  ;  understands  the  point  of  an  equivoque, 
or  an  observation  immediately ;  has  a  taste  and  knowledge  of 
books,  of  music,  of  medals;  manages  an  argument  adroitly;  is 
genteel  and  gallant,  and  has  a  set  of  bye-phrases  and  quaint  al- 
lusions always  at  hand  to  produce  a  laugh : — if  he  has  a  fault,  it 
is  that  he  does  not  listen  so  well  as  he  speaks,  is  impatient  of  in- 
terruption, and  is  fond  of  being  looked  up  to,  without  considering 
by  whom.  I  believe,  however,  he  has  pretty  well  seen  the  folly 
of  this.  Neither  is  his  ready  display  of  personal  accomplish- 
ment and  variety  of  resources  an  advantage  to  his  writings. 
They  sometimes  present  a  desultory  and  slip-shod  appearance, 
owing  to  this  very  circumstance.  The  same  things  that  tell, 
perhaps,  best,  to  a  private  c  rcle  round  the  fireside,  are  not  always 


134  TABLE  TALK. 


intelligible  to  the  public,  nor  does  he  take  pai  is  to  make  them  so. 
He  is  too  confident  and  secure  of  his  audience.  That  which 
may  be  entertaining  enough  with  the  assistance  of  a  certain  live- 
liness of  manner,  may  read  very  flat  on  paper,  because  it  is  ab- 
stracted from  all  the  circumstances  that  had  set  it  off  to  advantage. 
A  writer  should  recollect  that  he  has  only  to  trust  to  the  imme- 
diate impression  of  words,  like  a  musician  who  sings  without  the 
accompaniment  of  an  instrument.  There  is  nothing  to  help  out, 
or  slubber  over,  the  defects  of  the  voice  in  the  one  case,  nor  of 
the  style  in  the  other.  The  reader  may,  if  he  pleases,  get  a  very 
good  idea  of  Leigh  Hunt's  conversation  from  a  very  agreeable 
paper  he  has  lately  published,  called  the  Indicator,  than  which 
nothing  can  be  more  happily  conceived  or  executed. 

The  art  of  conversation  is  the  art  of  hearing  as  well  as  of 
being  heard.  Authors  in  general  are  not  good  listeners.  Some 
of  the  best  talkers  are,  on  this  account,  the  worst  company  ;  and 
some  who  are  very  indifferent,  but  very  great  talkers,  are  as  bad. 
It  is  sometimes  wonderful  to  see  how  a  person,  who  has  been  en- 
tertaining or  tiring  a  company  by  the  hour  together,  drops  his 
countenance  as  if  he  had  been  shot,  or  had  been  seized  with  a 
sudden  lock-jaw,  the  moment  any  one  interposes  a  single  obser- 
vation. The  best  converser  I  know  is,  however,  the  best  listener. 
I  mean  Mr.  Northcote,  the  painter.  Painters  by  their  profession 
are  not  bound  to  shine  in  conversation,  and  they  shine  the  more. 
He  lends  his  ear  to  an  observation,  as  if  you  had  brought  him  a 
piece  of  news,  and  enters  into  it  with  as  much  avidity  and 
earnestness,  as  if  it  interested  himself  personally.  If  he  repeats 
an  old  remark  or  story,  it  is  with  the  same  freshness  and  point  as 
for  the  first  time.  It  always  arises  out  of  the  occasion,  and  has 
the  stamp  of  originality.  There  is  no  parroting  of  himself.  His 
look  is  a  continual,  ever-varying  history-piece  of  what  passes  in 
his  mind.  His  face  is  as  a  book.  There  need  no  marks  of  in- 
terjection or  interrogation  to  what  he  says.  His  manner  is  quite 
picturesque.  There  is  an  excess  of  character  and  naivete  that 
never  tires.  His  thoughts  bubble  up  and  sparkle,  like  beads  on 
old  wine.  The  fund  of  anecdote,  the  collection  of  curious  parti- 
culars, is  enough  to  set  up  any  common  retailer  of  jests,  that 
dines  out  every  day  ;  but  these  are  not  strung  together  like  a  row 


ON  THE  CONVERSATION  OP  AUTHORS.  135 

of  galley-slaves,  but  are  always  introduced  to  illustrate  some  ar- 
gum°nt  or  bring  out  some  fine  distinction  of  character.  The 
mixture  of  spleen  adds  to  the  sharpness  of  the  point,  like  poisoned 
arrows.  Mr.  Northcote  enlarges  with  enthusiasm  on  the  old 
painters,  and  tells  good  things  of  the  new.  The  only  thing  he 
ever  vexed  me  in  was  his  liking  the  Catalogue  Raisonnee.  I  had 
almost  as  soon  hear  him  talk  of  Titian's  pictures  (which  he  does 
with  tears  in  his  eyes,  and  looking  just  like  them)  as  see  the  ori- 
ginals, and  I  had  rather  hear  him  talk  of  Sir  Joshua's  than  see 
them.  He  is  the  last  of  that  school  who  knew  Goldsmith  and 
Johnson.  How  finely  he  describes  Pope  !  His  elegance  of  mind, 
his  figure,  his  character,  were  not  unlike  his  own.  He  does  not 
resemble  a  modern  Englishman,  but  puts  one  in  mind  of  a  Roman 
Cardinal  or  Spanish  Inquisitor.  I  never  ate  or  drank  with  Mr. 
Northcote  ;  but  I  have  lived  on  his  conversation  with  undiminished 
relish  ever  since  I  can  remember, — and  when  I  leave  it,  I  come 
out  into  the  street  with  feelings  lighter  and  more  ethereal  than  I 
have  at  any  other  time. — One  of  his  tHe-a-tetes  would  at  any 
time  make  an  Essay  ;  but  he  cannot  write  himself,  because  he 
loses  himself  in  the  connecting  passages,  is  fearful  of  the  effect, 
and  wants  the  habit  of  bringing  his  ideas  into  one  focus  or  point 
of  view.  A  lens  is  necessary  to  collect  the  diverging  rays,  the 
refracted  and  broken  angular  lights  of  conversation  on  paper. 
Contradiction  is  half  the  battle  in  talking — the  being  startled  by 
what  others  say,  and  having  to  answer  on  the  spot.  You  have 
to  defend  yourself,  paragraph  by  paragraph,  parenthesis  within 
parenthesis.  Perhaps  it  might  be  supposed  that  a  person  who 
excels  in  conversation  and  cannot  write,  would  succeed  better  in 
dialogue.  But  the  stimulus,  the  immediate  irritation,  would  be 
wanting ;  and  the  work  would  read  flatter  than  ever,  from  not 
having  the  very  thing  it  pretended  to  have. 

Lively  sallies  and  connected  discourse  are  very  different 
things.  There  are  many  persons  of  that  impatient  and  restless 
turn  of  mind,  that  they  cannot  wait  a  moment  for  a  conclusion, 
or  follow  up  the  thread  of  any  argument.  In  the  hurry  of  con- 
versation their  ideas  are  somehow  huddled  into  sense  :  but  in  the 
ntervals  of  thought,  leave  a  great  gap  between.  Montesquieu 
said,  he  often  lost  an  idea  before  he  could  find  words  for  it :  yet 


136  TABLE  TALK. 


he  dictated,  by  way  of  saving  time,  to  an  amanuensis.  This  last 
is,  in  my  opinion,  a  vile  method,  and  a  solecism  in  authorship. 
Home  Tooke,  among  other  paradoxes,  used  to  maintain,  that  no 
one  could  write  a  good  style  who  was  not  in  the  habit  of  talking 
and  hearing  the  sound  of  his  own  voice.  He  might  as  well  have 
said  that  no  one  could  relish  a  good  style  without  reading  it 
aloud,  as  we  find  common  people  do  to  assist  their  apprehension. 
But  there  is  a  method  of  trying  periods  on  the  ear,  or  weighing 
them  with  the  scales  of  the  breath,  without  any  articulate  sound. 
Authors,  as  they  write,  may  be  said  to  "  hear  a  sound  so  fine, 
there's  nothing  lives  'twixt  it  and  silence."  Even  musicians 
generally  compose  in  their  heads.  I  agree  that  no  style  is  good, 
that  is  not  fit  to  be  spoken  or  read  aloud  with  effect.  This  holds 
true  not  only  of  emphasis  and  cadence,  but  also  with  regard  to 
natural  idiom  and  colloquial  freedom.  Sterne's  was  in  this  re- 
spect the  best  style  that  ever  was  written.  You  fancy  that  you 
hear  the  people  talking.  For  a  contrary  reason,  no  college-man 
writes  a  good  style,  or  understands  it  when  written.  Fine  wri- 
ting is  with  him  all  verbiage  and  monotony — a  translation  into 
classical  centos  or  hexameter  lines. 

That  which  I  have  just  mentioned  is  among  many  instances  I 
could  give  of  ingenious  absurdities  advanced  by  Mr.  Tooke  in 
the  heat  and  pride  of  controversy.  A  person  who  knew  him 
well,  and  greatly  admired  his  talents,  said  of  him  that  he  never 
(to  his  recollection)  heard  him  defend  an  opinion  which  he 
thought  right,  or  in  which  he  believed  him  to  be  himself  sincere. 
He  indeed  provoked  his  antagonists  into  the  toils  by  the  very  ex- 
travagance of  his  assertions,  and  the  teasing  sophistry  by  which 
he  rendered  them  plausible.  His  temper  was  prompter  to  his 
skill.  He  had  the  manners  of  a  man  of  the  world,  with  great 
scholastic  resources.  He  flung  every  one  else  ofFhis  guard,  and 
was  himself  immoveable.  I  never  knew  any  one  who  did  not 
admit  his  superiority  in  this  kind  of  warfare.     He  put  a  full  stop 

to  one  of  C 's  long-winded  prefatory  apologies  for  his  youth 

and  inexperience,  by  saying  abruptly,  "  Speak  up,  young  man  !" 
and,  at  another  time,  silenced  a  learned  professor,  by  desiring  an 
explanation  of  a  word  which  the  other  frequently  used,  and  which,, 
he  said,  he  had  been  many  years  'rying  to  get  at  the  meaning  of, — 


ON  THE  CONVERSATION  OF  AUTHORS.  131 

the  copulative  Is !  He  was  the  best  intellectual  fencer  of  his 
day.  He  made  strange  havoc  of  Fuseli's  fantastic  hieroglyphics, 
violent  humours,  and  oddity  of  dialect.  Curran,  who  was  some- 
times of  the  same  party,  was  lively  and  animated  in  convivial 
conversation,  but  dull  in  argument ;  nay,  averse  to  any  thing 
like  reasoning  or  serious  observation,  and  had  the  worst  taste  I 
ever  knew.  His  favourite  critical  topics  were  to  abuse  Milton's 
Paradise  Lost,  and  Romeo  and  Juliet.  Indeed,  he  confessed  a 
want  of  sufficient  acquaintance  with  books  when  he  found  him- 
self in  literary  society  in  London.  He  and  Sheridan  once  dined 
at  John  Kemble's  with  Mrs.  Inchbald  and  Mary  Woolstonecroft, 
when  the  discourse  almost  wholly  turned  on  Love,  "  from  noon 
to  dewy  eve,  a  summer's  day  !"  What  a  subject !  What  speak- 
ers, and  what  hearers  !  What  would  I  not  give  to  have  been 
•there,  had  I  not  learned  it  all  from  the  bright  eyes  of  Amaryllis, 
and  may  one  day  make  a  Table-talk  of  it !  Peter  Pindar  was 
rich  in  anecdote  and  grotesque  humour,  and  profound  in  technical 
knowledge  both  of  music,  poetry,  and  painting,  but  he  was  gross 
and  over-bearing.  Wordsworth  sometimes  talks  like  a  man  in- 
spired on  subjects  of  poetry  (his  own  out  of  the  question) — Cole- 
ridge well  on  every  subject,  and  G — dwin  on  none.  To  finish 
this  subject :  Mrs.  M 's  conversation  is  as  finecut  as  her  fea- 
tures, and  I  like  to  sit  in  the  room  with  that  sort  of  coronet  face. 
What  she  says  leaves  a  flavour,  like  fine  green  tea.     H — t's  is 

like  champaigne,  and  N 's  like  anchovy  sandwiches.     H — y- 

d — n's  is  like  a  game  at  trap-ball :  L — 's  like  snap-dragon :  and 
my  own  (if  I  do  not  mistake  the  matter)  is  not  very  much  unlike 

a  game  at  nine-pins  ! One  source  of  the  conversation 

of  authors,  is  the  character  of  other  authors,  and  on  that  they  are 
rich  indeed.  What  things  they  say  !  What  stories  they  tell  of  one 
another,  more  particularly  of  their  friends  !  If  I  durst  only  give 
some  of  these  confidential  communications  ! .  . .  The  reader  may 
perhaps  think  the  foregoing  a  specimen  of  them  : — but  indeed  he 
is  mistaken. 

I  do  not  know  of  any  greater  impertinence,  than  for  an  ob- 
scure individual  to  set  about  pumping  a  character  of  celebrity. 
"  Bring  him  to  me,"  said  a  Doctor  Tronchin,  speaking  of  Rous- 
seau, "  that  I  may  see  whether  he  has  any  thing  in  him."     Be- 


138  TABLE  TALK. 


fore  you  can  take  measure  of  the  capacity  of  others,  you  ought 
to  be  sure  that  they  have  not  taken  measure  of  yours.  They 
may  think  you  a  spy  on  them,  and  may  not  like  their  company. 
If  you  really  want  to  know  whether  another  person  can  talk 
well,  begin  by  saying  a  good  thing  yourself,  and  you  will  have 
a  right  to  look  for  a  rejoinder.  "  The  best  tennis-players,"  says 
Sir  Fopling  Flutter,  "  make  the  best  matches." 

For  wit  is  like  a  rest 


Held  up  at  tennis,  which  men  do  the  best 
With  the  best  players. 

We  hear  it  often  said  of  a  great  author,  or  a  great  actress,  that 
they  are  very  stupid  people  in  private.  But  he  was  a  fool  that 
said  so.  Tell  me  your  company,  and  Fll  tell  you  your  manners.  In 
conversation,  as  in  other  things,  the  action  and  reaction  should 
bear  a  certain  proportion  to  each  other.  Authors  may,  in 
some  sense,  be  looked  upon  as  foreigners,  who  are  not  natural- 
ized even  in  their  native  soil.     L once  came  down  into  the 

country  to  see  us.  He  was  "  like  the  most  capricious  poet  Ovid 
among  the  Goths."  The  country-people  thought  him  an  oddity, 
and  did  not  understand  his  jokes.  It  would  be  strange  if  they 
had  ;  for  he  did  not  make  any,  while  he  staid.  But  when  we 
crossed  the  country  to  Oxford,  then  he  spoke  a  little.  He  and 
the  old  colleges  were  hail-fellow  well  met ;  and  in  the  quadran- 
gles, he  "  walked  gowned." 

There  is  a  character  of  a  gentleman ;  so  there  is  a,  character 
of  a  scholar,  which  is  no  less  easily  recognized.  The  one  has 
an  air  of  books  about  him,  as  the  other  has  of  good-breeding. 
The  one  wears  his  thoughts  as  the  other  does  his  clothes,  grace- 
fully ;  and  even  if  they  are  a  little  old-fashioned,  they  are  not 
ridiculous  :  they  have  had  their  day.  The  gentleman  shows,  by 
his  manner,  that  he  has  been  used  to  respect  from  others :  the 
scholar,  that  he  lays  claim  to  self-respect  and  to  a  certain  inde- 
pendence of  opinion.  The  one  has  been  accustomed  to  the  best 
company  ;  the  other  has  passed  his  time  in  cultivating  an  inti- 
macy with  the  best  authors.  There  is  nothing  forward  or  vul- 
gar in  the  behaviour  of  the  one  ;  nothing  shrewd  or  petulant  in 
the  observations  of  the  other,  as  if  he  should  astonish  the  bye- 


ON  THE  CONVERSATION  OF  AUTHORS.  131* 

standers,  or  was  astonished  himself  at  his  own  discoveries.  Good 
taste  and  good  sense,  like  common  politeness,  are,  or  are  sup- 
posed to  be,  matters  of  course.  One  is  distinguished  by  an  ap- 
pearance of  marked  attention  to  every  one  present ;  the  other 
manifests  an  habitual  air  of  abstraction  and  absence  of  mind. 
The  one  is  not  an  upstart  with  all  the  self-important  airs  of  the 
founder  of  his  own  fortune  ;  nor  the  other  a  self-taught  man,  with 
the  repulsive  self-sufficiency  which  arises  from  an  ignorance  of 
what  hundreds  have  known  before  him.  We  must  excuse  per- 
haps a  little  conscious  family-pride  in  the  one,  and  a  little  harm- 
less pedantry  in  the  other.  As  there  is  a  class  of  the  first  cha- 
racter which  sinks  into  the  mere  gentleman,  that  is,  which  has 
nothing  Vut  this  sense  of  respectability  and  propriety  to  support 
it — so  the  character  of  a  scholar  not  unfrequently  dwindles  down 
into  the  shadow  of  a  shade,  till  nothing  is  left  of  it  but  the  mere 
book- worm.  There  is  often  something  amiable  as  well  as  envia- 
ble in  this  last  character.  I  know  one  such  instance,  at  least. 
The  person  I  mean  has  an  admiration  for  learning,  if  he  is 
only  dazzJed  by  its  light.  He  lives  among  old  authors,  if  he 
does  not  enter  much  into  their  spirit.  He  handles  the  covers, 
and  turns  over  the  page,  and  is  familiar  with  the  names  and 
dates.  He  is  busy  and  self-involved.  He  hangs  like  a  film  and 
cobweb  upon  letters,  or  is  like  the  dust  upon  the  outside  of  know- 
ledge, which  should  not  be  rudely  brushed  aside.  He  follows 
learning  as  its  shadow ;  but,  as  such,  he  is  respectable.  He 
browzes  on  the  husk  and  leaves  of  books,  as  the  young  fawn 
browzes  on  the  bark  and  leaves  of  trees.  Such  a  one  lives  all 
his  life  in  a  dream  of  learning,  and  has  never  once  had  his  sleep 
broken  by  a  real  sense  of  things.  He  believes  implicitly  in  ge- 
nius, truth,  virtue,  liberty,  because  he  finds  the  names  of  these 
things  in  books.  He  thinks  that  love  and  friendship  are  the 
finest  things  imaginable,  both  in  practice  and  theory.  The  le- 
gend of  good  women  is  to  him  no  fiction.  When  he  steals  from 
the  twilight  of  his  cell,  the  scene  breaks  upon  him  like  an  illu- 
minated missal,  and  all  the  people  he  sees  are  but  so  many 
figures  in  a  camera  obscura.  He  reads  the  world,  like  a  favourite 
volume,  only  to  find  beauties  in  it,  or  like  an  edition  of  some  old 
work  which  he  is  preparing  for  the  press,  only  to  make  emenda- 
10 — PART  TI 


140  TABLE  TALK. 


lions  in  it,  and  correct  the  errors  that  have  inadvertently  slipt  in 
He  and  his  dog  Tray  are  much  the  same  honest,  simple-hearted, 
faithful,  affectionate  creatures — if  Tray  could  but  read  !  His 
mind  cannot  take  the  impression  of  vice :  but  the  gentleness  of 
his  nature  turns  gall  to  milk.  He  would  not  hurt  a  fly.  He 
draws  the  picture  of  mankind  from  the  guileless  simplicity  of  his 
own  heart :  and  when  he  dies,  his  spirit  will  take  its  smiling 
leave  without  having  ever  had  an  ill  thought  of  otherr,  or  tl  rf 
consciousness  of  one  in  itself ! 


MY  FIRST  ACQUAINTANCE  WITH  POETS.  141 


ESSAY  XXVII. 

My  First  Acquaintance  with  Poets. 

My  father  was  a  dissenting  minister  at  Wem,  in  Shropshire  ;  and 
in  the  year  1798  (the  figures  that  compose  that  date  are  to  me 
like  the  "  dreaded  name  of  Demogorgon")  Mr.  Coleridge  came  to 
Shrewsbury,  to  succeed  Mr.  Rowe  in  the  spiritual  charge  of  a 
Unitarian  congregation  there.  He  did  not  come  till  late  on  the 
Saturday  afternoon  before  he  was  to  preach  ;  and  Mr.  Rowe, 
who  himself  went  down  to  the  coach  in  a  state  of  anxiety  and 
expectation  to  look  for  the  arrival  of  his  successor,  could  find  no 
one  at  all  answering  the  description  but  a  round-faced  man  in  a 
short  black  coat  (like  a  shooting  jacket)  which  hardly  seemed  to 
have  been  made  for  him,  but  who  seemed  to  be  talking  at  a  great 
rate  to  his  fellow-passengers.  Mr.  Rowe  had  scarce  returned  to 
give  an  account  of  his  disappointment  when  the  round-faced 
man  in  black  entered,  and  dissipated  all  doubts  on  the  subject  by 
beginning  to  talk.  He  did  not  cease  while  he  stayed  ;  nor  has  he 
since,  that  I  know  of.  He  held  the  good  town  of  Shrewsbury  in 
delightful  suspense  for  three  weeks  that  he  remained  there,  "  flut- 
tering the  proud  Salopians,  like  an  eagle  in  a  dove-cote ;"  and  the 
Welsh  mountains  that  skirt  the  horizon  with  their  tempestuous 
confusion  agree  to  have  heard  no  such  mystic  sounds  since  the 
days  of 

"  High-born  Hoel's  harp  or  soft  Llewellyn's  lay !" 

As  we  passed  along  between  Wem  and  Shrewsbury,  and  I  eyed 
their  blue  tops  seen  through  the  wintry  branches,  or  the  red  rust- 
ling leaves  of  the  sturdy  oak-trees  by  the  road-side,  a  sound  was 
in  my  ears  as  of  Siren's  song;  I  was  stunned,  startled  with  it,  as 
from  deep  sleep ;  but  I  had  no  notion  then  that  I  should  ever  be 

15 


J  12  TABLE  TALK. 


able  to  express  my  admiration  to  others  in  motley  imagery  or 
quaint  allusion,  till  the  light  of  his  genius  shone  into  my  soul,  like 
the  sun's  rays  glittering  in  the  puddles  of  the  road.  I  was  at  that 
time  dumb,  inarticulate,  helpless,  like  a  worm  by  the  way-side, 
crushed,  bleeding,  lifeless ;  but  now,  bursting  from  the  deadly 
bands  that  "  bound  them, 

"  With  Styx  nine  times  round  them," 

iry  ideas  float  on  winged  words,  and  as  they  expand  their  plumes, 
:atch  the  golden  light  of  other  years.  My  soul  has  indeed  re- 
named in  its  original  bondage,  dark,  obscure,  with  longings  infinite 
and  unsatisfied  ;  my  heart,  shut  up  in  the  prison-house  of  this 
rude  clay,  has  never  found,  nor  will  it  ever  find,  a  heart  to  speak 
to ;  but  that  my  understanding  also  did  not  remain  dumb  and 
brutish,  or  at  length  found  a  language  to  express  itself,  I  owe  to 
Coleridge.     But  this  is  not  to  my  purpose. 

My  father  lived  ten  miles  from  Shrewsbury,  and  was  in  the 
habit  of  exchanging  visits  with  Mr.  Rowe,  and  with  Mr.  Jenkins 
of  Whitchurch  (nine  miles  farther  on,)  according  to  the  custom  of 
dissenting  ministers  in  each  other's  neighbourhood.  A  line  of 
communication  is  thus  established,  by  which  the  flame  of  civil 
and  religious  liberty  is  kept  alive,  and  nourishes  its  smouldering 
fire  unquenchable,  like  the  fires  in  the  Agamemnon  of  iEschylus, 
placed  at  different  stations,  that  waited  for  ten  long  years  to  an- 
nounce with  their  blazing  pyramids  the  destruction  of  Troy. 
Coleridge  had  agreed  to  come  over  and  see  my  father,  according 
to  the  courtesy  of  the  country,  as  Mr.  Rowe's  probable  suc- 
cessor ;  but,  in  the  mean  time,  I  had  gone  to  hear  him  preach 
the  Sunday  after  his  arrival.  A  poet  and  a  philosopher  getting 
up  into  a  Unitaiian  pulpit  to  preach  the  gospel,  was  a  romance  in 
these  degenerate  days,  a  sort  of  revival  of  the  primitive  spirit  of 
Christianity,  which  was  not  to  be  resisted. 

It  was  in  January,  1798,  that  I  rose  one  morning  before  day 
light,  to  walk  ten  miles  in  the  mud,  to  hear  this  celebrated  person 
preach.  Never,  the  longest  day  I  have  to  live,  shall  I  have  such 
another  walk  as  this  cold,  raw,  comfortless  one,  in  the  winter  of  the 
year  1798, — H  y  a  des  impressions  que  ni  le  terns  ni  les  circonstances 
peuvent  effacer.     Dusse-je  vivre  des  siecles  enliers,  le  doux  ferns  de 


MY  FIRST  ACQUAINTANCE  WITH  POETS.  143 

ma  jeunesse  ne  peut  renailre  pour  moi,  ni  s'effacer  jamais  dans  ma 
memoire.  When  I  got  there,  the  organ  was  playing  the  100th 
psalm,  and  when  it  was  done,  Mr.  Coleridge  rose  and  gave  out 
his  text,  "  And  he  went  up  into  the  mountain  to  pray,  himself, 
alone."  As  he  gave  out  his  text,  his  voice  "  rose  like  a  stream 
of  rich  distilled  perfumes,"  and  when  he  came  to  the  two  last 
words,  which  he  pronounced  loud,  deep,  and  distinct,  it  seemed  to 
me,  who  was  then  young,  as  if  the  sounds  had  echoed  from  the 
bottom  of  the  human  heart,  and  as  if  that  prayer  might  have 
floated  iq  solemn  silence  through  the  universe.  The  idea  of  St. 
John  came  into  my  mind,  "  of  one  crying  in  the  wilderness,  who 
had  his  loins  girt  about,  and  whose  food  was  locusts  and  wild 
honey."  The  preacher  then  launched  into  his  subject,  like  an 
eagle  dallying  with  the  wind.  The  sermon  was  upon  peace  and 
war  ;  upon  church  and  state — not  their  alliance,  but  their  sepa- 
ration— on  the  spirit  of  the  world  and  the  spirit  of  Christianity,  not 
as  the  same,  but  as  opposed  to  one  another.  He  talked  of  those 
who  had  "  inscribed  the  cross  of  Christ  on  banners  dripping  with 
human  gore."  He  made  a  poetical  and  pastoral  excursion, — 
and  to  show  the  fatal  effects  of  war,  drew  a  striking  contrast 
between  the  simple  shepherd-boy,  driving  his  team  afield,  or  sitting 
under  the  hawthorn,  piping  to  his  flock,  "  as  though  he  should 
never  be  old,"  and  the  same  poor  country-lad,  crimped,  kid- 
napped, brought  into  town,  made  drunk  at  an  alehouse,  turned 
into  a  wretched  drummer-boy,  with  his  hair  sticking  on  end  with 
powder  and  pomatum,  a  long  cue  at  his  back,  and  tricked  out  in 
the  loathsome  finery  of  the  profession  of  blood. 

"  Such  were  the  notes  our  once-loved  poet  sung." 

And  for  myself,  I  could  not  have  been  more  delighted  if  I  had 
heard  the  music  of  the  spheres.  Poetry  and  philosophy  had  met 
together,  Truth  and  Genius  had  embraced,  under  the  eye  and 
with  the  sanction  of  Religion.  This  was  even  beyond  my  hopes. 
I  returned  home  well  satisfied.  The  sun  that  was  still  labouring 
paie  and  wan  through  the  sky,  obscured  by  thick  mists,  seemed 
an  emblem  of  the  good  cause  ;  and  the  cold  dank  drops  of  dew, 
that  hung  half-melted  on  the  beard  of  the  thistle,  had  something 
genial  and  refreshing  in  them  ;  for  there  was  a  spirit  of  hope 

15 


144  TABLE  TALK. 


and  youth  in  all  nature,  that  turned  every  thing  into  good.  The 
face  of  nature  had  not  then  the  brand  of  Jus  Divinum  on  it : 

"  Like  to  that  sanguine  flower  inscribed  with  woe.' 

On  the  Tuesday  following,  the  half-inspired  speaker  came.  I 
was  called  down  into  the  room  where  he  was,  and  went  half-hoping, 
half-afraid.  He  received  me  very  graciously,  and  I  listened 
for  a  long  time  without  uttering  a  word.  I  did  not  suffer  in  his 
opinion  by  my  silence.  "  For  those  two  hours,"  he  afterwards 
was  pleased  to  say,  "  he  was  conversing  with  William  Hazlitt's 
forehead  !"  His  appearance  was  different  from  what  I  had  an- 
ticipated from  seeing  him  before.  At  a  distance,  and  in  the  dim 
light  of  the  chapel,  there  was  to  me  a  strange  wildness  in  his 
aspect,  a  dusky  obscurity,  and  I  thought  him  pitted  with  the  small- 
pox.    His  complexion  was  at  that  time  clear,  and  even  bright, — 

"  As  are  the  children  of  yon  azure  sheen." 

His  forehead  was  broad  and  high,  light  as  if  built  of  ivory,  with 
large  projecting  eyebrows,  and  his  eyes  rolling  beneath  them,  like 
a  sea  with  darkened  lustre.  "  A  certain  tender  bloom  his  face 
o'erspread,"  a  purple  tinge  as  we  see  it  in  the  pale  thoughtful 
complexions  of  the  Spanish  portrait-painters,  Murillo  and  Velas- 
quez. His  mouth  was  gross,  voluptuous,  open,  eloquent :  his 
chin  good-humoured  and  round  ;  but  his  nose,  the  rudder  of  the 
face,  the  index  of  the  will,  was  small,  feeble,  nothing — like  what 
he  has  done.  It  might  seem  that  the  genius  of  his  face  as  from  a 
height  surveyed  and  projected  him  (with  sufficient  capacity  and 
huge  aspiration)  into  the  world  unknown  of  thought  and  imagi- 
nation, with  nothing  to  support  or  guide  his  veering  purpose,  as 
if  Columbus  had  launched  his  adventurous  course  for  the  New 
World  in  a  scallop,  without  oars  or  compass.  So  at  least  I  com- 
ment on  it  after  the  event.  Coleridge,  in  his  person,  was  rather 
above  the  common  size,  inclining  to  the  corpulent,  or  like  Lord 
Hamlet,  "  somewhat  fat  and  pursy."  His  hair  (now,  alas  !  grey) 
was  then  black  and  glossy  as  the  raven's,  and  fell  in  smooth 
masses  over  his  forehead.  This  long  pendulous  hair  is  peculiar 
to  enthusiasts,  to  those  whose  minds  tend  heavenward  ;  and  is 


MY  FIRST  ACQUAINTANCE  WITH  POETS.  145 

traditionally  inseparable  (though  of  a  different  colour)  from  the 
pictures  of  Christ.  It  ought  to  belong,  as  a  character,  to  all  who 
preach  Christ  crucified,  and  Coleridge  was  at  that  time  one  of 
those ! 

It  was  curious  to  observe  the  contrast  between  him  and  my 
father,  who  was  a  veteran  in  the  cause,  and  then  declining  into 
the  vale  of  years.  He  had  been  a  poor  Irish  lad,  carefully 
brought  up  by  his  parents,  and  sent  to  the  University  of  Glasgow 
(where  he  studied  under  Adam  Smith)  to  prepare  him  for  his 
future  destination.  It  was  his  mother's  proudest  wish  to  see  her 
son  a  dissenting  minister.  So,  if  we  look  back  to  past  genera- 
tions (as  far  as  eye  can  reach),  we  see  the  same  hopes,  fears, 
wishes,  followed  by  the  same  disappointments,  throbbing  in  the 
human  heart ;  and  so  we  may  see  them  (if  we  look  forward)  rising 
up  for  ever,  and  disappearing,  like  vapourish  bubbles,  in  the  hu- 
man breast !  After  being  tossed  about  from  congregation  to  con- 
gregation in  the  heats  of  the  Unitarian  controversy,  and  squabbles 
about  the  American  war,  he  had  been  relegated  to  an  obscure 
village,  where  he  was  to  spend  the  last  thirty  years  of  his  life, 
far  from  the  only  converse  that  he  loved,  the  talk  about  dis- 
puted texts  of  Scripture,  and  the  cause  of  civil  and  religious 
liberty.  Here  he  passed  his  days,  repining,  but  resigned,  in  the 
study  of  the  Bible,  and  the  perusal  of  the  commentators, — huge 
folios,  not  easily  got  through,  one  of  which  would  outlast  a 
winter  !  Why  did  he  pore  on  these  from  morn  to  night  (with 
the  exception  of  a  walk  in  the  fields  or  a  turn  in  the  garden  to 
gather  broccoli-plants  or  kidney  beans  of  his  own  rearing,  with 
no  small  degree  of  pride  and  pleasure)?  Here  were  "no  figures 
nor  no  fantasies," — neither  poetry  nor  philosophy — nothing  to 
dazzle,  nothing  to  excite  modern  curiosity ;  but  to  his  lack-lustre 
eyes  there  appeared,  within  the  pages  of  the  ponderous,  unwieldy 
neglected  tomes,  the  sacred  name  of  JEHOVAH  in  Hebrew 
capitals :  pressed  down  by  the  weight  of  the  style,  worn  to  the 
last  fading  thinness  of  the  understanding,  there  were-  glimpses, 
glimmering  notions  of  the  patriarchal  wanderings,  with  palm-treea 
hovering  in  the  horizon,  and  processions  of  camels  at  the  distance 
of  three  thousand  years;  there  was  Moses  with  the  burning  bush 
the  number  of  the  Twelve  Tribes,  tyoes,  shadows,  glosses  on  fl** 


146  TABLE  TALK. 


law  and  (.he  prophets  ;  there  were  discussions  (dull  enough)  on  the 
age  of  Methuselah,  a  mighty  speculation !  there  were  outlines, 
rude  guesses  at  the  shape  of  Noah's  Ark  and  of  the  riches  of 
Solomon's  Temple  ;  questions  as  to  the  date  of  the  creation,  pre 
dictions  of  the  end  of  all  things ;  the  great  lapses  of  time,  the 
strange  mutations  ol  die  globe,  were  unfolded  with  the  voluminous 
leaf,  as  it  turned  over ;  and  though  the  soul  might  slumber  with 
an  hieroglyphic  veil  of  inscrutable  mysteries  drawn  over  it,  yet  it 
was  in  a  slumber  ill  exchanged  for  all  the  sharpened  realities  of 
sense,  wit,  fancy,  or  reason.  My  father's  life  was  comparatively 
a  dream  ;  but  it  was  a  dream  of  infinity  and  eternity,  of  death, 
the  resurrection,  and  a  judgment  to  come  ! 

No  two  individuals  were  ever  more  unlike  than  were  the  host 
and  his  guest.  A  poet  was  to  my  father  a  sort  of  nondescript 
yet  whatever  added  grace  to  the  Unitarian  cause  was  to  him 
welcome.  He  could  hardly  have  been  more  surprised  or  pleased, 
if  our  visitor  had  worn  wings.  Indeed,  his  thoughts  had  wings  ; 
and  as  the  silken  sounds  rustled  round  our  little  wainscoted  parlor, 
my  father  threw  back  his  spectacles  over  his  forehead,  his  white 
hairs  mixing  with  its  sanguine  hue ;  and  a  smile  of  delight 
beamed  across  his  rugged  cordial  face,  to  think  that  Truth  had 
found  a  new  ally  in  Fancy  !*  Besides,  Coleridge  seemed  to 
take  considerable  notice  of  me,  and  that  of  itself  was  enough. 
He  talked  very  familiarly,  but  agreeably,  and  glanced  over  a 
variety  of  subjects.  At  dinner-time  he  grew  more  animated, 
and  dilated  in  a  very  edifying  manner  on  Mary  Wolstonecraft 
and  Mackintosh.  The  last,  he  said,  he  considered  (on  my 
father's  speaking  of  his  'Vindicise  Gallicise'  as  a  capital  per- 
formance) as  a  clever  scholastic  man — a  master  of  the  topics, — 
or  as  the  ready  warehouseman  of  letters,  who  knew  exactly 
where  to  lay  his  hand  on  what  he  wanted,  though  the  goods  were 
not  his  own.  He  thought  him  no  match  for  Burke,  either  in  style 
or  matter.     Burke  was  a  metaphysician,   Mackintosh  a  mere 

*  My  father  was  one  of  those  who  mistook  his  talent  after  all.  He  used  to 
be  very  much  dissatisfied  that  I  preferred  his  Letters  to  his  Sermons.  The 
last  were  forced  and  dry :  the  first  came  naturally  from  him.  For  ease,  half- 
plays  on  words,  and  a  supine,  monkish,  indolent  pleasan  ry,  I  have  never  seen 
them  equalled. 


MY  FIRST  ACQUAINTANCE  WITH  POETS.  147 

logician.  Burke  was  an  orator  (almost  a  poet)  who  reasoned  in 
figures,  because  he  had  an  eye  for  nature  :  Mackintosh,  on  the 
other  hand,  was  a  rhetorician,  who  had  only  an  eye  to  common- 
places. On  this  I  ventured  to  say  that  I  had  always  entertained 
a  great  opinion  of  Burke,  and  that  (as  far  as  I  could  find)  the 
speaking  of  him  with  contempt  might  be  made  the  test  of  a  vulgar 
democratical  mind.  This  was  the  first  observation  I  ever  made 
to  Coleridge,  and  he  said  it  was  a  very  just  and  striking  one.  I 
remember  the  leg  of  Welsh  mutton  and  the  turnips  on  the  table 
Jiat  day  had  the  finest  flavor  imaginable.  Coleridge  added  that 
Mackintosh  and  Tom  Wedgwood  (of  whom,  however,  he  spoke 
highly)  had  expressed  a  very  indifferent  opinion  of  his  friend  Mr. 
Wordswortb,  on  which  he  remarked  to  them — "  He  strides  on  so 
far  before  you,  that  he  dwindles  in  the  distance  !"  Godwin  had 
once  boasted  to  him  of  having  carried  on  an  argument  with 
Mackintosh  for  three  hours  with  dubious  success ;  Coleridge  told 
him — "  If  there  had  been  a  man  of  genius  in  the  room,  he  would 
have  settled  the  question  in  five  minutes."  He  asked  me  if  I  had 
ever  seen  Mary  Wolstonecraft,  and  I  said,  I  had  once  for  a  few 
moments,  and  that  she  seemed  to  me  to  turn  off"  Godwin's  objec- 
tion to  something  she  advanced  with  quite  a  playful,  easy  air. 
He  replied,  that  "  this  was  only  one  instance  of  the  ascendency 
which  people  of  imagination  exercised  over  those  of  mere  intel- 
lect." He  did  not  rate  Godwin  very  high*  (this  was  caprice  or 
prejudice,  real  or  affected,)  but  he  had  a  great  idea  of  Mrs.  Wol- 
stonecraft's  powers  of  conversation ;  none  at  all  of  her  talent  for 
book-making.  We  talked  a  little  about  Holcroft.  He  had  been 
asked  if  he  was  not  much  struck  with  him,  and  he  said,  he  thought 
himself  in  more  danger  of  being  struck  by  him.  I  complained 
that  he  would  not  let  me  get  on  at  all,  for  he  required  a  defini- 
tion of  every  the  commonest  word,  exclaiming,  "  What  do  you 
mean  by  a  sensation,  Sir  ?  What  do  you  mean  by  an  idea  ?" 
This,  Coleridge  said,  was  barricadoing  the  road  to  truth  ; — it  was 
setting  up  a  turnpike-gate  at  every  step  we  took.     I  forget  a  great 

*  He  complained  in  particular  of  the  presumption  of  his  attempting  to 
establish  the  future  immortality  of  man,  "  without"  (as  he  said)  "  knowing 
what  Death  was  or  what  Life  was" — and  the  tone  in  whi«h  he  pronounced 
these  two  words  seemed  to  convey  a  complete  image  of  both. 


148  TABLE  TALK. 


lumber  of  things,  many  more  than  I  remember ;  but  the  day 
passed  off  pleasantly,  and  the  next  morning  Mr.  Coleridge  was 
to  return  to  Shrewsbury.  When  I  came  down  to  breakfast,  1 
found  that  he  had  just  received  a  letter  from  his  friend,  T. 
Wedgwood,  making  him  an  offer  of  j£150  a-year  if  he  choose  to 
waive  his  present  pursuit,  and  devote  himself  entirely  to  the  study 
of  poetry  and  philosophy.  Coleridge  seemed  to  make  up  his 
mind  to  close  with  this  proposal  in  the  act  of  tying  on  one  of  his 
shoes.  It  threw  an  additional  damp  on  his  departure.  It  took 
the  wayward  enthusiast  quite  from  us  to  cast  him  into  Deva's 
winding  vales,  or  by  the  shores  of  old  romance.  Instead  of  living 
at  ten  miles'  distance,  of  being  the  pastor  of  a  Dissenting  congre- 
gation at  Shrewsbury,  he  was  henceforth  to  inhabit  the  Hill  of 
Parnassus,  to  be  a  Shepherd  on  the  Delectable  Mountains.  Alas ! 
I  knew  not  the  way  thither,  and  felt  very  little  gratitude  for  Mr. 
Wedgwood's  bounty.  I  was  presently  relieved  from  this  dilemma  ; 
for  Mr.  Coleridge,  asking  for  a  pen  and  ink,  and  going  to  a  table 
to  write  something  on  a  bit  of  card,  advanced  towards  me  with 
undulating  step,  and  giving  me  the  precious  document,  said  that 
that  was  his  address,  Mr.  Coleridge,  Nether- Stowey,  Somerset- 
shire ;  and  that  he  should  be  glad  to  see  me  there  in  a  few 
weeks'  time,  and,  if  I  chose,  would  come  half-way  to  meet  me. 
I  was  not  less  surprised  than  the  shepherd-boy  (this  simile  is  to  be 
found  in  Cassandra)  when  he  sees  a  thunder-bolt  fall  close  at  his 
feet.  I  stammered  out  my  acknowledgments  and  acceptance  of 
this  offer  (I  thought  Mr.  Wedgwood's  annuity  a  trifle  to  it)  as 
well  as  I  could ;  and  this  mighty  business  being  settled,  the  poet- 
preacher  took  leave,  and  I  accompanied  him  six  miles  on  the  road. 
It  was  a  fine  morning  in  the  middle  of  winter,  and  he  talked  the 
whole  way.     The  scholar  in  Chaucer  is  described  as  going 

"  Sounding  on  his  way." 

So  Coleridge  went  on  his.  In  digressing,  in  dilating,  in  passing, 
from  subject  to  subject,  he  appeared  to  me  to  float  in  air,  to  slide 
on  ice.  He  told  me  in  confidence  (going  along)  that  he  should 
have  preached  two  sermons  before  he  accepted  the  situation  at 
Shrewsbury,  one  on  Infant  Baptism,  the  other  on  the  Lord's  Sup- 
per, showing  that  he  could  not  administer  either,  which  would 


MY  FIRST  ACQUAINTANCE  WITH  POETS.  149 

have  effectually  disqualified  him  for  the  object  in  view  i  ob- 
served that  he  continually  crossed  me  on  the  way  by  shifting 
from  one  side  of  the  foot-path  to  the  other.  This  struck  me  as 
an  odd  movement  ;  but  I  did  not  at  that  time  connect  it  with  any 
instability  of  purpose  or  involuntary  change  of  principle,  as  I 
have  done  since.  He  seemed  unable  to  keep  on  in  a  straight 
line.  He  spoke  slightingly  of  Hume  (whose  '  Essay  on  Miracles' 
he  said  was  stolen  from  an  objection  started  in  one  of  South's 
sermons — Credat  Judaus  Apella  !)  I  was  not  very  much  pleased 
at  this  account  of  Hume,  for  I  had  just  been  reading,  with  in- 
finite relish,  that  completest  of  all  metaphysical  choke-pears,  his 
'  Treatise  on  Human  Nature,'  to  which  the  '  Essays,'  in  point  of 
scholastic  subtilty  and  close  reasoning,  are  mere  elegant  trifling, 
light  summer  reading.  Coleridge  even  denied  the  excellence  of 
Hume's  general  style,  which  I  think  betrayed  a  want  of  taste  or 
candour.  He  however  made  me  amends  by  the  manner  in  which 
he  spoke  of  Berkeley.  He  dwelt  particularly  on  his  '  Essay  on 
Vision'  as  a  masterpiece  of  analytical  reasoning.  So  it  un- 
doubtedly is.  He  was  exceedingly  angry  with  Dr.  Johnson  for 
striking  the  stone  with  his  foot,  in  allusion  to  this  author's 
Theory  of  Matter  and  Spirit,  and  saying,  "  Thus  I  confute  him, 
Sir."  Coleridge  drew  a  parallel  (I  don't  know  how  he  brought 
about  the  connection)  between  Bishop  Berkeley  and  Tom  Paine. 
He  said  the  one  was  an  instance  of  a  subtle,  the  other  of  an  acute 
mind,  than  which  no  two  things  could  be  more  distinct.  The 
one  was  a  shop-boy's  quality,  the  other  the  characteristic  of  a 
philosopher.  He  considered  Bishop  Butler  as  a  true  philosopher, 
a  profound  and  conscientious  thinker,  a  genuine  reader  of  nature 
and  of  his  own  mind.  He  did  not  speak  of  his  'Analogy,'  but 
of  his  '  Sermons  at  the  Rolls'  Chapel,'  of  which  I  had  never 
heard.  Coleridge  somehow  always  contrived  to  prefer  the  un- 
known to  the  known.  In  this  instance  he  was  right.  The  '  Ana- 
logy' is  a  tissue  of  sophistry,  of  wire-drawn,  theological  special- 
pleading  ;  the  '  Sermons'  (with  the  Preface  to  them)  are  in  a  fine 
vein  of  deep,  matured  reflection,  a  candid  appeal  to  our  observa- 
tion of  human  nature,  without  pedantry  and  without  bias.  I  told 
Coleridge  I  had  written  a  few  remarks,  and  was  sometimes 
foolish   enough  to  believe  that  I  had  made  a  discovery  on  the 

15* 


lad  TABLE  TALK. 


same  subject  (lie  '  Natural  Disinterestedness  of  the  Human 
Mind') — and  I  tried  to  explain  my  view  of  it  to  Coleridge,  who 
listened  with  great  willingness,  but  I  did  not  succeed  in  making 
myself  understood.  I  sat  down  to  the  task  shortly  afterwards  for 
the  twentieth  time,  got  new  pens  and  paper,  determined  to  make 
clear  work  of  it,  wrote  a  few  meagre  sentences  in  the  skeleton- 
style  of  a  mathematical  demonstration,  stopped  half-way  down 
the  second  page  ;  and  after  trying  in  vain  to  pump  up  any  words, 
images,  notions,  apprehensions,  facts,  or  observations  from  that 
gulph  of  abstraction  in  which  I  had  plunged  myself  for  four  or 
five  years  preceding,  gave  up  the  attempt  as  labour  in  vain,  and 
shed  tears  of  helpless  despondency  on  the  blank  unfinished  paper. 
I  can  write  fast  enough  now.  Am  I  better  than  I  was  then  ?  Oh 
no !  One  truth  discovered,  one  pang  of  regret  at  not  being  able 
to  express  it,  is  better  than  all  the  fluency  and  flippancy  in  the 
world.  Would  that  I  could  go  back  to  what  I  then  was !  Why 
can  we  not  revive  past  times  as  we  can  revisit  old  places  ?  If  I 
had  the  quaint  Muse  of  Sir  Philip  Sidney  to  assist  me,  I  would 
write  a  Sonnet  to  the  Road  between  Wem  and  Shrewsbury,  and 
immortalize  every  step  of  it  by  some  fond  enigmatical  conceit.  I 
would  swear  that  the  very  milestones  had  ears,  and  that  Harmer- 
hill  stooped  with  all  its  pines,  to  listen  to  a  poet,  as  he  passed  ! 
I  remember  but  one  other  topic  of  discourse  in  this  walk.  He 
mentioned  Paley,  praised  the  naturalness  and  clearness  of  his 
style,  but  condemned  his  sentiments,  thought  him  a  mere  time- 
serving casuist,  and  said  that  "  the  fact  of  his  work  on  Moral  and 
Political  Philosophy  being  made  a  text-book  in  our  Universities 
was  a  disgrace  to  the  national  character."  We  parted  at  the 
six-mile  stone  ;  and  I  returned  homeward,  pensive  but  much 
pleased.  I  had  met  with  unexpected  notice  from  a  person,  whom 
I  believed  to  have  been  prejudiced  against  me.  "  Kind  and  af- 
fable to  me  had  been  his  condescension,  and  should  be  honoured 
ever  with  suitable  regard."  He  was  the  first  poet  I  had  known, 
and  he  certainly  answered  to  that  inspired  name.  I  had  heard  a 
great  deal  of  his  powers  of  conversation,  and  was  not  disappointed. 
In  fact,  I  never  met  with  any  thing  at  all  like  them,  either  before 
or  since.  I  could  easily  credit  the  accounts  which  were  circu- 
lated of  his  holding  forth  to  a  large  party  of  ladies  and  gentle- 


MY  FIRST  ACQUAINTANCE  WITH  POETS.  151 

men,  an  evening  or  two  before,  on  the  Berkeleian  Theory,  when 
he  made  the  whole  material  universe  look  like  a  transparency  of 
fine  words  ;  and  another  story  (which  I  believe  he  has  somewhere 
told  himself)  of  his  being  asked  to  a  party  at  Birmingham,  of  hi" 
smoking  tobacco  and  going  to  sleep  after  dinner  on  a  sofa,  where 
the  company  found  him  to  their  no  small  surprise,  which  was  in- 
creased to  wonder  when  he  started  up  of  a  sudden,  and  rubbing 
his  eyes,  looked  about  him,  and  launched  into  a  three-hours'  de- 
scription of  the  third  heaven,  of  which  he  had  had  a  dream,  very 
different  from  Mr.  Southey's  '  Vision  of  Judgment,'  and  also 
from  that  other  '  Vision  of  Judgment,'  which  Mr.  Murray,  the 
Secretary  of  the  Bridge-street  Junto,  took  into  his  especial 
keeping ! 

On  my  way  back,  I  had  a  sound  in  my  ears — it  was  the  voice 
of  Fancy  :  I  had  a  light  before  me — it  was  the  face  of  Poetry. 
The  one  still  lingers  there,  the  other  has  not  quitted  my  side ! 
Coleridge  in  truth  met  me  half-way  on  the  ground  of  philosophy, 
or  I  should  not  have  been  won  over  to  his  imaginative  creed.  I 
had  an  uneasy,  pleasurable  sensation  all  the  time,  till  I  was  to 
visit  him.  During  those  months  the  chill  breath  of  winter  gave 
me  a  welcoming ;  the  vernal  air  was  balm  and  inspiration  to  me. 
The  golden  sun-sets,  the  silver  star  of  evening,  lighted  me  on  my 
way  to  new  hopes  and  prospects.  I  was  to  visit  Coleridge  in  the 
Spring.  This  circumstance  was  never  absent  from  my  thoughts, 
and  mingled  with  all  my  feelings.  I  wrote  to  him  at  the  time 
proposed,  and  received  an  answer  postponing  my  intended  visit 
for  a  week  or  two,  but  very  cordially  urging  me  to  complete  my 
promise  then.  This  delay  did  not  damp,  but  rather  increased  my 
ardour.  In  the  mean  time,  I  went  to  Llangollen  Vale,  by  way  of 
initiating  myself  in  the  mysteries  of  natural  scenery  ;  and  I  must 
say  I  was  enchanted  with  it.  I  had  been  reading  Coleridge's  de- 
scription of  England,  in  his  fine  '  Ode  on  the  Departing  Year,' 
and  I  applied  it,  con  amore,  to  the  objects  before  me.  That  valley 
was  to  me  (in  a  manner)  the  cradle  of  a  new  existence  :  in  the 
river  that  winds  through  it,  my  spirit  was  baptised  in  the  waters 
of  Helicon  ! 

I  returned  home,  and  soon  after  set  out  on  my  journey  with  un- 
worn heart  and  untried  feet.     My  way  lay  through  Worcester 


153  TABLE  TALK. 


and  Gloucester,  and  by  Upton,  where  I  thought  of  Tom  Fanes 
and  the  adventure  of  the  muff.  I  remember  getting  completely 
Vet  through  one  day,  and  stopping  at  an  inn  (I  think  it  was  at 
Tewkesbury,)  where  I  sat  up  all  night  to  read  '  Paul  and  Virginia.' 
Sweet  were  the  showers  in  early  youth  that  drenched  my  body, 
and  sweet  the  drops  of  pity  that  fell  upon  the  books  I  read  !  I 
recollect  a  remark  of  Coleridge's  upon  this  very  book, — that  no- 
thing  could  show  the  gross  indelicacy  of  French  manners  and  the 
entire  corruption  of  their  imagination  more  strongly  than  the  be- 
haviour of  the  heroine  in  the  last  fatal  scene,  who  turns,  away 
from  a  person  on  board  the  sinking  vessel,  that  offers  to  save  her 
life,  because  he  has  thrown  off  his  clothes  to  assist  him  in  swim- 
ming. Was  this  a  time  to  think  of  such  a  circumstance  ?  I 
once  hinted  to  Wordsworth,  as  we  were  sailing  in  his  boat  on 
Grasmere  lake,  that  I  thought  he  had  borrowed  the  idea  of  his 
'  Poems  on  the  Naming  of  Places'  from  the  local  inscriptions  of 
the  same  kind  in  '  Paul  and  Virginia.'  He  did  not  own  the  ob- 
ligation, and  stated  some  distinction  without  a  difference,  in  de- 
fence of  his  claim  to  originality.  Any  the  slightest  variation 
would  be  sufficient  for  this  purpose  in  his  mind ;  for  whatever 
he  added  or  altered  would  inevitably  be  worth  all  that  any  one 
else  had  done,  and  contain  the  marrow  of  the  sentiment.  I  was 
still  two  days  before  the  time  fixed  for  my  arrival,  for  I  had  taken 
care  to  set  out  early  enough.  I  stopped  these  two  days  at  Bridge- 
water,  and  when  I  was  tired  of  sauntering  on  the  banks  of  its 
muddy  river,  returned  to  the  inn,  and  read  '  Camilla.'  So  have 
I  loitered  my  life  away,  reading  books,  looking  at  pictures,  going 
to  plays,  hearing,  thinking,  writing  on  what  pleased  me  best. 
I  have  wanted  only  one  thing  to  make  me  happy ;  but  wanting 
that,  have  wanted  every  thing ! 

I  arrived  and  was  well  received.  The  country  about  Nether 
Stowey  is  beautiful,  green  and  hilly,  and  near  the  sea-shore.  I 
saw  it  but  the  other  day,  after  an  interval  of  twenty  years,  from 
a  hill  near  Taunton.  How  was  the  map  of  my  life  spread  out 
before  me,  as  the  map  of  the  country  lay  at  my  feet !  In  the 
afternoon,  Coleridge  took  me  over  to  All-Foxden,  a  romantic  old 
family  mansion  of  the  St.  Aubins,  where  Wordsworth  lived.  It 
was  then  in  the  possession  of  a  friend  of  the  poet's,  who  gave  h>ii 


MY  FIRST  ACQUAINTANCE  WITH  POETS.  153 

the  free  use  of  it.  Somehow  that  period  (the  time  just  after  tbe 
French  Revolution)  was  not  a  time  when  nothing  was  given  for 
nothing.  The  mind  opened,  and  a  softness  might  be  perceived 
coming  over  the  heart  of  individuals,  beneath  "  the  scales  that 
fence"  our  self-interest.  Wordsworth  himself  was  from  home, 
but  his  sister  kept  house*,  and  set  before  us  a  frugal  repast ;  and 
we  had  free  access  to  her  brother's  poems,  the  x  Lyrical  Ballads,' 
which  were  still  in  manuscript,  or  in  the  form  of  '  Sybilline 
Leaves.'  I  dipped  into  a  few  of  these  with  great  satisfaction,  and 
with  the  faith  of  a  novice.  I  slept  that  night  in  an  old  room  with 
blue  hangings,  and  covered  with  the  round-faced  family-portraits 
of  the  age  of  George  I.  and  II.,  and  from  the  wooded  declivity 
of  the  adjoining  park  that  overlooked  my  window,  at  the  dawn 
of  day,  could 

"  hear  the  loud  stag  speak." 

In  the  outset  of  life  (and  particularly  at  this  time  I  felt  it  so) 
our  imagination  has  a  body  to  it.  We  are  in  a  state  between 
sleeping  and  waking,  and  have  indistinct  but  glorious  glimpses  of 
strange  shapes,  and  there  is  always  something  to  come  better  than 
what  we  see.  As  in  our  dreams  the  fulness  of  the  blood  gives 
warmth  and  reality  to  the  coinage  of  the  brain,  so  in  youth  our 
ideas  are  clothed,  and  fed,  and  pampered  with  our  good  spirits ; 
we  breathe  thick  with  thoughtless  happiness,  the  weight  of  future 
years  presses  on  the  strong  pulses  of  the  heart,  and  we  repose 
with  undisturbed  faith  in  truth  and  good.  As  we  advance,  we 
exhaust  our  fund  of  enjoyment  and  of  hope.  We  are  no  longer 
wrapped  in  lamb's-wool,  lulled  in  Elysium.  As  we  taste  the 
pleasures  of  life,  their  spirit  evaporates,  the  sense  palls ;  and 
nothing  is  left  but  the  phantoms,  the  lifeless  shadows  of  v.  hat  has 
been  ! 

That  morning,  as  soon  as  breakfast  was  over,  we  strolled  out 
into  the  park,  and  seating  ourselves  on  the  trunk  of  the  old  ash- 
tree  that  stretched  along  the  ground,  Coleridge  read  aloud  with 
a  sonorous  and  musical  voice,  the  ballad  of  '  Betty  Foy.'  I  was 
not  critically  or  sceptically  inclined.  I  saw  touches  of  truth  and 
nature,  and  took  the  rest  for  granted.  But  in  the  '  Thorn,'  the 
Mad  Mother,'  and  the  '  Complaint  of  a  Poor  Indian  Woman,'  I 


1 54  TABLE  TALK. 

felt  that  deeper  power  and  pathos  which  have  been  since  ac- 
knowledged, 

"  In  spite  of  pride,  in  erring  reason's  spite," 

as  the  characteristics  of  this  author ;  and  the  sense  of  a  new 
style  and  a  new  spirit  in  poetry  came  over  me.  It  had  to  me 
something  of  the  effect  that  arises  from  the  turning  up  of  the 
fresh  soil,  or  of  the  first  welcome  breath  of  Spring, 

"  While  yet  the  trembling  year  is  unconfirmed." 

Coleridge  and  myself  walked  back  to  Stowey  that  evening,  and 
uis  voice  sounded  high 

"  Of  Providence,  foreknowledge,  will,  and  fate, 
Fix'd  fate,  free-will,  foreknowledge  absolute," 

as  we  passed  through  echoing  grove,  by  fairy  stream  or  water- 
fall, gleaming  in  the  summer  moonlight !"  He  lamented  that 
Wordsworth  was  not  prone  enough  to  believe  in  the  traditional 
superstitions  of  the  place,  and  that  there  was  a  something  corpo- 
real, a  matter-qf-fact-ness,  a  clinging  to  the  palpable,  or  often  to 
the  petty,  in  his  poetry,  in  consequence.  His  genius  was  not  a 
spirit  that  descended  to  him  through  the  air :  it  sprung  out  of  the 
ground  like  a  flower,  or  unfolded  itself  from  a  green  spray,  on 
which  the  goldfinch  sang.  He  said,  however,  (if  I  remember 
right,)  that  this  objection  must  be  confined  to  his  descriptive 
pieces,  that  his  philosophic  poetry  had  a  grand  and  comprehen- 
sive spirit  in  it,  so  that  his  soul  seemed  to  inhabit  the  universe  like 
a  palace,  and  to  discover  truth  by  intuition,  rather  than  by  de- 
duction. The  next  day  Wordsworth  arrived  from  Bristol  at 
Coleridge's  cottage.  I  think  I  see  him  now.  He  answered  in 
some  degree  to  his  friend's  description  of  him,  but  was  more 
gaunt  and  Don  Quixote-like.  He  was  quaintly  dressed  (accord- 
ing to  the  costume  of  that  unconstrained  period)  in  a  brown  fus- 
tian jacket  and  striped  pantaloons.  There  was  something  of  a 
roll,  a  lounge  in  his  gait,  not  unlike  his  own  '  Peter  Bell.'  There 
was  a  severe,  worn  pressure  of  thought  about  his  temples,  a  fire 
in  his  eye  (as  if  he  saw  something  in  objects  more  than  the  out- 
ward appearance,)  an  intense,  high,  narrow  forehead,  a  Roman 


MY  FIRST  ACQUAINTANCE  WITH  POETS.  65 

nose,  cheeks  furrowed  by  strong  purpose  and  feeling,  and  a  con- 
vulsive inclination  to  laughter  about  the  mouth,  a  good  deal  at 
variance  with  the  solemn,  stately  expression  of  the  rest  of  his 
face.  Chantry's  bust  wants  the  marking  trafts  ;  but  he  was 
teazed  into  making  it  regular  and  heavy  ;  Haydon's  head  of  him, 
introduced  into  the  Entrance  of  Christ  into  Jerusalem,  is  the  most 
like  his  drooping  weight  of  thought  and  expression.  He  sat  down 
and  talked  very  naturally  and  freely,  with  a  mixture  of  clear 
gushing  accents  in  his  voice,  a  deep  guttural  intonation,  and  a 
strong  tincture  of  the  northern  burr,  like  the  crust  on  wine.  He 
instantly  began  to  make  havoc  of  the  half  of  a  Cheshire  cheese 
on  the  table,  and  said  triumphantly  that  "  his  marriage  with  ex- 
perience had  not  been  so  productive  as  Mr.  Southey's  in  teaching 
him  a  knowledge  of  the  good  things  of  this  life."  He  had  been 
to  see  the  •  Castle  Spectre'  by  Monk  Lewis,  while  at  Bristol,  and 
described  it  very  well.  He  said  "  it  fitted  the  taste  of  the  audi- 
ence like  a  glove." 

This  ad  captandum  merit  was  however  by  no  means  a  recom- 
mendation of  it,  according  to  the  severe  principles  of  the  new 
school,  which  reject  rather  than  court  popular  effect.  Words- 
worth, looking  out  of  the  low,  latticed  window,  said,  ¥  How 
beautifully  the  sun  sets  on  that  yellow  bank  !"  I  thought  within 
myself,  "  With  what  eyes  these  poets  see  nature !"  and  ever 
after  when  I  saw  the  sun-set  stream  upon  the  objects  facing  it, 
conceived  I  had  made  a  discovery,  or  thanked  Mr.  Wordsworth  for 
having  made  one  for  me  !  We  went  over  to  All-Foxden  again 
the  day  following,  and  Wordsworth  read  us  the  story  of  '  Peter 
Bell'  in  the  open  air ;  and  the  comment  made  upon  it  by  his  face 
and  voice  was  very  different  from  that  of  some  later  critics  ! 
Whatever  might  be  thought  of  the  poem,  "  his  face  was  as  a  book 
where  men  might  read  strange  matters,"  and  he  announced  the 
fate  of  his  hero  in  prophetic  tones.  There  is  a  chaunt  in  the  re- 
citation both  of  Coleridge  and  Wordsworth,  which  acts  as  a  spell 
upon  the  hearer,  and  disarms  the  judgment.  Perhaps  they  have 
deceived  themselves  by  making  habitual  use  of  this  ambiguous 
accompaniment.  Coleridge's  manner  is  more  full,  animated, 
and  varied  ;  Wordsworth's  more  equable,  sustained,  and  internal. 
The  one  might  be  termed  more  dramatic,  the  other  more  lyrical 
11 — PART  II. 


156  TABLE  TALK. 


Coleridge  has  told  me  that  he  himself  liked  to  compose  in  walk- 
.ng  over  uneven  ground,  or  breaking  through  the  straggling 
branches  of  a  copsewood ;  whereas  Wordsworth  always  wrote 
(if  he  could)  walking  up  and  down  a  straight  gravel-walk,  or  in 
some  spot  where  the  continuity  of  his  verse  met  with  no  collate- 
ral interruption.  Returning  that  same  evening,  I  got  into  a  meta- 
physical argument  with  Wordsworth,  while  Coleridge  was  ex- 
plaining the  different  notes  of  the  nightingale  to  his  sister,  in 
which  we  neither  of  us  succeeded  in  making  ourselves  perfectly 
clear  and  intelligible.  Thus  I  passed  three  weeks  at  Nether 
Stowey  and  in  the  neighbourhood,  generally  devoting  the  after- 
noons to  a  delightful  chat  in  an  arbour  made  of  bark  by  the  poet's 
friend  Tom  Poole,  sitting  under  two  fine  elm-trees,  and  listening 
to  the  bees  humming  round  us,  while  we  quaffed  our  Jlip.  It  was 
agreed,  among  other  things,  that  we  should  make  a  jaunt  down 
the  Bristol  Channel,  as  fa#r  as  Linton.  We  set  off  together  on 
foot,  Coleridge,  John  Chester,  and  I.  This  Chester  was  a  native 
of  Nether  Stowey,  one  of  those  who  were  attracted  to  Cole- 
ridge's discourse  as  flies  are  to  honey,  or  bees  in  swarming-time 
to  the  sound  of  a  brass  pan.  He  "  followed  in  the  chace,  like  a 
dog  who  hunts,  not  like  one  that  made  up  the  cry."  He  had  on 
a  brown  cloth  coat,  boots,  and  corduroy  breeches,  was  low  in 
stature,  bow-legged,  had  a  drag  in  his  walk  like  a  drover,  which 
he  assisted  by  a  hazel  switch,  and  kept  on  a  sort  of  trot  by  the 
side  of  Coleridge,  like  a  running  footman  by  a  state  coach,  that 
he  might  not  lose  a  syllable  or  sound,  that  fell  from  Coleridge's 
lips.  He  told  me  his  private  opinion,  that  Coleridge  was  a  won- 
derful man.  He  scarcely  opened  his  lips,  much  less  offered  an 
opinion  the  whole  way  :  yet  of  the  three,  had  I  to  choose  during 
that  journey,  I  would  be  John  Chester.  He  afterwards  followed 
Coleridge  into  Germany,  where  the  Kantean  philosophers  were 
puzzled  how  to  bring  him  under  any  of  their  categories.  When 
he  sat  down  at  table  with  his  idol,  John's  felicity  was  complete ; 
Sir  Walter  Scott's,  or  Mr.  Blackwood's,  when  they  sat  down  at 
the  same  table  with  the  King,  was  not  more  so.  We  passed 
Dunster  on  our  right,  a  small  town  between  the  brow  of  a  hill 
and  the  sea.  I  remember  eyeing  it  wistfully  as  it  lay  below  us: 
contrasted  with  the  woody  scene  around,  it  looked  as  clear,  as 


MY  FIRST  ACaUAINTANCE  WITH  POETS.  151 

pure,  as  embrowned  and  ideal  as  any  landscape  I  have  seen  since, 
of  Gasper  Poussin's  or  Domenichino's.  We  had  a  long  day's 
march — (our  feet  kept  time  to  the  echoes  of  Coleridge's  tongue) 
— through  Minehead  and  by  the  Blue  Anchor,  and  on  to  Linton, 
which  we  did  not  reach  till  near  midnight,  and  where  we  had 
some  difficulty  in  making  a  lodgment.  We  however  knocked 
the  people  of  the  house  up  at  last,  and  we  were  repaid  for  our 
apprehensions  and  fatigue  by  some  excellent  rashers  of  fried 
bacon  and  eggs.  The  view  in  coming  along  had  been  splendid. 
We  walked  for  miles  and  miles  on  dark  brown  heaths  overlook- 
ing the  Channel,  with  the  Welsh  hills  beyond,  and  at  times  de- 
scended into  little  sheltered  valleys  close  by  the  sea-side,  with  a 
smuggler's  face  scowling  by  us,  and  then  had  to  ascend  conical 
hills  with  a  path  winding  up  through  a  coppice  to  a  barren  top, 
like  a  monk's  shaven  crown,  from  one  of  which  I  pointed  out  to 
Coleridge's  notice  the  bare  masts  of  a  vessel  on  the  very  edge  of 
the  horizon  and  within  the  red-orbed  disk  of  the  setting  sun,  like 
his  own  spectre-ship  in  the  '  Ancient  Mariner.'  At  Linton  the 
character  of  the  sea-coast  becomes  more  marked  and  rugged. 
There  is  a  place  called  the  Valley  of  the  Rocks  (I  suspect  this 
was  only  the  poetical  name  for  it)  bedded  among  precipices  over- 
hanging  the  sea,  with  rocky  caverns  beneath,  into  which  the 
waves  dash,  and  where  the  sea-gull  for  ever  wheels  its  screaming 
flight.  On  the  tops  of  these  are  huge  stones  thrown  transverse, 
as  if  an  earthquake  had  tossed  them  there,  and  behind  these  is  a 
fretwork  of  perpendicular  rocks,  something  like  the  Giant's 
Causeway. 

A  thunder-storm  came  on  while  we  were  at  the  inn,  and  Cole- 
ridge was  running  out  bareheaded  to  enjoy  the  commotion  of  the 
elements  in  the  Valley  of  Rocks,  but  as  if  in  spite,  the  clouds 
only  muttered  a  few  angry  sounds,  and  let  fall  a  few  refreshing 
drops.  Coleridge  told  me  that  he  and  Wordsworth  were  to  have 
made  this  place  the  scene  of  a  prose-tale,  which  was  to  have 
been  in  the  manner  of,  but  far  superior  to,  the  ■  Death  of  Abel,' 
but  they  had  relinquished  the  design.  In  the  morning  of  the  se- 
cond day,  we  breakfasted  luxuriously  in  an  old-fashioned  parlor, 
on  tea,  toast,  eggs  and  honey,  in  the  very  sight  of  the  bee-hives 
from  which  it  had  been  taken,  and  a  garden  full  of  thyme  ana 


158  TABLE  TALK. 

wild  flowers  that  had  produced  it.  On  this  occasion  Coleridge 
spoke  of  Virgil's  '  Georgics,'  but  not  well.  1  do  not  think  he  had 
much  feeling  for  the  classical  or  elegant.  It  was  in  this  room 
that  we  found  a  little  worn-out  copy  of  the  '  Seasons,'  lying  in  a 
window-seat,  on  which  Coleridge  exclaimed,  "  That  is  true  fame  !" 
He  said  Thomson  was  a  great  poet,  rather  than  a  good  one ;  his 
style  was  as  meretricious  as  his  thoughts  were  natural.  He 
spoke  of  Cowper  as  the  best  modern  poet.  He  said  the  '  Lyrical 
Ballads '  were  an  experiment  about  to  be  tried  by  him  and 
Wordsworth,  to  see  how  far  the  public  taste  would  endure  poetry 
written  in  a  more  natural  and  simple  style  than  had  hitherto  been 
attempted  ;  totally  discarding  the  artifices  of  poetical  diction,  and 
making  use  only  of  such  words  as  had  probably  been  common  in 
the  most,  ordinary  language  since  the  days  of  Henry  II.  Some 
comparison  was  introduced  between  Shakespear  and  Milton. 
He  said  H  he  hardly  knew  which  to  prefer.  Shakespear  seemed 
to  him  a  mere  stripling  in  the  art ;  he  was  as  tall  and  as  strong, 
with  infinitely  more  activity  than  Milton,  but  he  never  appeared 
to  have  come  to  man's  estate  ;  or  if  he  had,  he  would  not  have 
been  a  man,  but  a  monster."  He  spoke  with  contempt  of  Gray, 
and  with  intolerance  of  Pope.  He  did  not  like  the  versification 
of  the  latter.  He  observed  that  "  the  ears  of  these  couplet-wri- 
ters might  be  charged  with  having  short  memories,  that  could 
not  retain  the  harmony  of  whole  passages."  He  thought  little 
of  Junius  as  a  writer  ;  he  had  a  dislike  of  Dr.  Johnson ;  and  a 
much  higher  opinion  of  Burke  as  an  orator  and  politician,  than 
of  Fox  or  Pitt.  He  however  thought  him  very  inferior  in  rich- 
ness  of  style  and  imagery  to  some  of  our  elder  prose-writers, 
particularly  Jeremy  Taylor.  He  liked  Richardson,  but  not 
Fielding  ;  nor  could  I  get  him  to  enter  into  the  merits  of  '  Caleb 
Williams.'*     In  short,  he  was  profound  and  discriminating  with 

*  He  had  no  idea  of  pictures,  of  Claude  or  Raphael,  and  at  this  time  I  had 
as  little  as  he.  He  sometimes  gives  a  striking  account  at  present  of  the  Car- 
toons at  Pisa,  by  Buffamalco  and  others  ;  of  one  in  particular,  where  Death  is 
seen  in  the  air  brandishing  his  scythe,  and  the  great  and  mighty  of  the  eartb 
shudder  at  his  approach,  while  the  beggars  and  the  wretched  kneel  to  him  as 
their  deliverer.  He  would  of  course  understand  so  broad  and  fine  a  moral  as 
this  at  any  time. 


MY  FIRST  ACaUAINTANCE  WITH  POETS.  159 

respect  to  those  authors  whom  he  liked,  and  where  he  gave  his 
judgment  fair  play  ;  capricious,  perverse,  and  prejudiced  in  his 
antipathies  and  distastes.  We  loitered  on  the  "  ribbed  seasand," 
in  such  talk  as  this  a  whole  morning,  and  I  recollect  met  with  a 
curious  sea-weed,  of  which  John  Chester  told  us  the  country 
name !  A  fisherman  gave  Coleridge  an  account  of  a  boy  that 
had  been  drowned  the  day  before,  and  that  they  had  tried  to  save 
him  at  the  risk  of  their  own  lives.  He  said  "  he  did  not  know 
now  it  was  that  they  ventured,  but,  Sir,  we  have  a  nature  to- 
wards one  another."  This  expression,  Coleridge  remarked  to 
me,  was  a  fine  illustration  of  that  theory  of  disinterestedness 
which  I  (in  common  with  Butler)  had  adopted.  I  broached  to 
him  an  argument  of  mine  to  prove  that  likeness  was  not  mere 
association  of  ideas.  I  said  that  the  mark  in  the  sand  put  one  in 
mind  of  a  man's  foot,  not  because  it  was  part  of  a  former  im- 
pression of  a  man's  foot  (for  it  was  quite  new),  but  because  it 
was  like  the  shape  of  a  man's  foot.  He  assented  to  the  justness 
of  this  distinction  (which  I  have  explained  at  length  elsewhere, 
for  the  benefit  of  the  curious,)  and  John  Chester  listened  ;  no: 
from  any  interest  in  the  subject,  but  because  he  was  astonished 
that  I  should  be  able  to  suggest  any  thing  to  Coleridge  that  he 
did  not  already  know.  We  returned  on  the  third  morning,  and 
Coleridge  remarked  the  silent  cottage-smoke  curling  up  the  val- 
leys where,  a  few  evenings  before,  we  had  seen  the  lights  gleam- 
ing through  the  dark. 

In  a  day  or  two  after  we  arrived  at  Stowey,  we  set  out,  I  on 
my  return  home,  and  he  for  Germany.  It  was  a  Sunday  morn- 
ing, and  he  was  to  preach  that  day  for  Dr.  Toulmin  of  Tauntod. 
I  asked  him  if  he  had  prepared  any  thing  for  the  occasion  ? 
He  said  he  had  not  even  thought  of  the  text,  but  should  as  soon 
as  we  parted.  I  did  not  go  to  hear  him, — this  was  a  fault, — but 
we  met  in  the  evening  at  Bridgewater.  The  next  day  we  had  a 
long  day's  walk  to  Bristol,  and  sat  down,  I  recollect,  by  a  well- 
side  on  the  road,  to  cool  ourselves  and  satisfy  our  thirst,  when 
Coleridge  repeated  to  me  some  descriptive  lines  from  his  tragedy 
of'  Remorse  ;'  which  I  must  say  became  his  mouth  and  that  oc- 
casion better  than  they,  some  years  after,  did  Mr  Elliston'a  and 
the  Drury-lane  boards, — 


160  TABLE  TALK. 


•'  O  memory !  shield  me  from  the  world's  poor  strife 
And  give  those  scenes  thine  everlasting  life." 

I  saw  no  more  of  him  for  a  year  or  two,  during  which  period 
he  had  been  wandering  in  the  Hartz  Forest  in  Germany  ;  and  his 
return  was  cometary,  meteorous,  unlike  his  setting  out.  It  was 
not  till  some  time  after  that  I  knew  his  friends  Lamb  and  Southey. 
The  last  always  appears  to  me  (as  I  first  saw  him)  with  a  com- 
mon-place book  under  his  arm,  and  the  first  with  a  hem-mot  in  his 
mouth.  It  .was  at  Godwin's  that  I  met  him  with  Holcroft  and 
Coleridge,  where  they  were  disputing  fiercely  which  was  the 
best — Man  as  he  was,  or  man  as  he  is  to  be.  "  Give  me,"  says 
Lamb,  "  man  as  he  is  not  to  be."  This  saying  was  the  begin- 
ning of  a  friendship  between  us,  which  I  believe  still  continues. 
Enough  of  this  for  the  present. 

"  But  there  is  matter  for  another  rhyme, 
Aad  I  to  this  may  add  a  second  tale." 


OF  PERSONS  ONE  WOULD  WISH  TO  HAVE  SEEN.       161 


ESSAY  XXVIII. 

Of  Persons  one  would  wish  to  have  seen. 

"  Come  like  shadows — so  depart. ' 

Lamb  it  was,  I  think,  who  suggested  this  subject,  as  weL  as  tne 
defence  of  Guy  Faux,  which  I  urged  him  to  execute-.  As,  now- 
ever,  he  would  undertake  neither,  I  suppose  I  must  do  botu — a 
task  for  which  he  would  have  been  much  fitter,  no  less  from  the 
temerity  than  the  felicity  of  his  pen — 

"  Never  so  sure  our  rapture  to  create 

As  when  it  touched  the  brink  of  all  we  hate." 

Compared  with  him  I  shall,  I  fear,  make  but  a  common-place 
piece  of  business  of  it ;  but  I  should  be  loth  the  idea  was  entirely 
lost,  and  besides  I  may  avail  myself  of  some  hints  of  his  in  the 
progress  of  it.  I  am  sometimes,  I  suspect,  a  better  reporter  of 
the  ideas  of  other  people  than  expounder  of  my  own.  I  pursue 
the  one  too  far  into  paradox  or  mysticism ;  the  others  I  am  not 
bound  to  follow  farther  than  I  like,  or  than  seems  fair  and  rea- 
sonable. 

On  the  question  being  started,  A said,  "  I  suppose  the  two 

first  persons  you  would  choose  to  see  would  be  the  two  greatest 
names  in  English  literature,  Sir  Isaac  Newton  and  Mr.  Locke  ?" 

In  this  A ,  as  usual,  reckoned  without  his  host.     Every  one 

burst  out  a-laughing  at  the  expression  of  Lamb's  face,  in  which 
impatience  was  restrained  by  courtesy.  "  Yes,  the  greatest 
names,"  he  stammered  out  hastily,  "  but  they  were  not  persons 

— not  persons."     "  Not  persons  ?"  said  A ,  looking  wise  and 

foolish  at  the  same  time,  afraid  his  triumph  might  be  premature. 
"  That  is,"  rejoined  Lamb,  "  not  characters  you  know.  By  Mr. 
Locke  and  Sir  Isaac  Newton,  you  mean  the  '  Essay  on  the  Hu- 
man Understanding,'  and  the  '  Principia,'  which  %ve  have  to  this 


162  TABLii  TALK 


day.  Beyond  their  contents  there  is  nothing  personally  interest, 
ing  in  the  men.  Bat  what  we  want  to  see  any  one  bodily  for, 
is  when  there  is  something  peculiar,  striking  in  the  individuals, 
more  than  we  can  learn  from  their  writings,  and  yet  are  curious 
to  know.  I  dare  say  Locke  and  Newton  were  very  like  Knel- 
ler's  portraits  of  them.     But  who  could  paint  Shakespear  ?"— 

"  Ay,"   retorted  A ,  "there  it  is  ;   then  I  suppose  you  would 

prefer  seeing  him  and  Milton  instead  ?  "  No,"  said  Lamb, 
"  neither.  I  have  seen  so  much  of  Shakespear  on  the  stage 
and  on  book-stalls,  in  frontispieces  and  on  mantel-pieces,  that 
I  am  quite  tired  of  the  everlasting  repetition :  and  as  to  Mil- 
ton's face,  the  impressions  that  have  come  down  to  us  of  it  I  do 
not  like;  it  is  too  starched  and  puritanical;  and  I  should  be 
afraid  of  losing  some  of  the  manna  of  his  poetry  in  the  leaven  of 
his  countenance  and  the  precisian's  band  and  gown."     "  I  shall 

guess  no  more,"  said  A .    "  Who  is  it,  then,  you  would  like  to 

see  '  in  his  habit  as  he  lived,'  if  you  had  your  choice  of  the  whole 
range  of  English  literature  ?  Lamb  then  named  Sir  Thomas 
Brown  and  Fulke  Greville,  the  friend  of  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  as  the 
two  worthies  whom  he  should  feel  the  greatest  pleasure  to  en- 
counter on  the  door  of  his  apartment  in  their  night-gown  and 
slippers,  and  to  encounter  friendly  greeting  with  them.     At  this 

A laughed  outright,  and  conceived  Lamb  was  jesting  with 

him ;  but  as  no  one  followed  his  example,  he  thought  there  might 
be  something  in  it,  and  waited  for  an  explanation  in  a  state  of 
whimsical  suspense.  Lamb  then  (as  well  as  I  can  remember  a 
conversation  that  passed  twenty  years  ago— how  time  slips !) 
went  on  as  follows  :  "  The  reason  why  I  pitch  upon  those  two 
authors  is,  that  their  writings  are  riddles,  and  they  themselves 
the  most  mysterious  of  personages.  They  resemble  the  sooth- 
sayers of  old,  who  dealt  in  dark  hints  and  doubtful  oracles ;  and 
I  should  like  to  ask  them  the  meaning  of  what  no  mortal  but 
themselves,  I  should  suppose,  can  fathom.  There  is  Dr.  Johnson, 
I  have  no  curiosity,  no  strange  uncertainty  about  him :  he  and 
Boswell  together  have  pretty  well  let  me  into  the  secret  "of  what 
passed  through  his  mind.  He  and  other  writers  like  him  are 
sufficiently  explicit :  my  friends  whose  repose  I  should  be  tempted 


OF  PERSONS  ONE  WOULD  WISH  TO  HAVE  SEEN        *G3 

to  disturb  (were  it  in  my  power),  are  implicit,  inextricable,  in- 
scrutable. 

"  When  I  look  at  that  obscure  but  gorgeous  prose-composition, 
the  '  Urn-burial,'  I  seem  to  myself  to  look  into  a  deep  abyss,  at 
the  bottom  of  which  are  hid  pearls  and  rich  treasure  ;  or  it  is 
like  a  stately  labyrinth  of  doubt  and  withering  speculation,  and  I 
would  invoke  the  spirit  of  the  author  to  lead  me  through  it.  Be- 
sides, who  would  not  be  curious  to  see  the  lineaments  of  a  man 
who,  having  himself  been  twice  married,  wished  that  m*ankind 
were  propagated  like  trees! 

"  As  to  Fulke  Greville,  he  is  like  nothing  but  one  of  his  own 
1  Prologues  spoken  by  the  ghost  of  an  old  king  of  Ormus,'  a  truly 
formidable  and  inviting  personage  :  his  style  is  apocalyptical,  ca- 
balistical,  a  knot  worthy  of  such  an  apparition  to  untie ;  and  for 
the  unravelling  a  passage  or  two,  I  would  stand  the  brunt  of  an 
encounter  with  so  portentous  a  commentator !     "  I  am  afraid  in 

that  case,"  said  A ,  "  that  if  the  mystery  were  once  cleared  up. 

the  merit  might  be  lost ;" — and  turning  to  me,  whispered  a  friend- 
ly apprehension,  that  while  Lamb  continued  to  admire  these  old 
crabbed  authors,  he  would  never  become  a  popular  writer.  Dr. 
Donne  was  mentioned  as  a  writer  of  the  same  period,  with  a 
very  interesting  countenance,  whose  history  was  singular,  and 
whose  meaning  was  often  quite  as  un-come-atable,  without  a  per- 
sonal citation  from  the  dead,  as  that  of  any  of  his  contemporaries. 
The  volume  was  produced ;  and  while  some  one  was  expatiating 
on  the  exquisite  simplicity  and  beauty  of  the  portrait  prefixed  tc 

the  old  edition,  A got  hold  of  the  poetry,  and   exclaiming 

"  What  have  we  here  ?"  read  the  following : 

"  Here  lies  a  She-Sun  and  a  He-Moon  there, 
She  gives  the  best  light  to  his  sphere, 
Or  each  is  both  and  all,  and  so, 
They  unto  one  another  nothing  owe." 

There  was  no  resisting  this,  till  Lamb  seizing  the  volume, 
turned  to  the  beautiful  "  Lines  to  his  Mistress,"  dissuading  her 
from  accompanying  him  abroad,  and  read  them  with  suffused 
features  and  a  faltering  tongue. 


f64  TABLE  TALK. 


"  By  our  first  strange  and  fatal  interview,  • 

By  all  desires  which  thereof  did  ensue, 

By  our  long  starving  hopes,  by  that  remorse 

Which  my  words'  masculine  persuasive  force 

Begot  in  thee,  and  by  the  memory 

Of  hurts,  which  spies  and  rivals  threaten'd  me, 

I  calmly  beg.     But  by  thy  father's  wrath, 

By  all  pains  which  want  and  divorcement  hath, 

I  conjure  thee ;  and  all  the  oaths  which  I 

And  thou  have  sworn  to  seal  joint  constancy, 

Here  I  unswear,  and  overswear  them  thus, 

Thou  shalt  not  love  by  ways  so  dangerous. 

Temper,  oh  fairLove!  love's  impetuous  rage, 

Be  my  true  mistress  still,  not  my  feign'd  page ; 

I'll  go,  and  by  thy  kind  leave,  leave  behind 

Thee !  only  worthy  to  nurse  in  my  mind, 

Thirst  to  come  back ;  oh,  if  thou  die  befoie 

My  soul  from  other  lands  to  thee  shall  soar, 

Thy  (else  almighty)  beauty  cannot  move 

Rage  from  the  seas,  nor  thy  love  teach  them  love. 

Nor  tame  wild  Boreas'  harshness  ;  thou  hast  read, 

How  roughly  he  in  pieces  shiverd 

Fair  Orithea,  whom  he  swore  he  loved. 

Fall  ill  or  good,  'tis  madness  to  have  prov'd 

Dangers  unurg'd :  Feed  on  this  flattery, 

That  absent  lovers  one   in  th'  other  be. 

Dissemble  nothing,  not  a  boy ;  nor  change 

Thy  body's  habit,  nor  mind ;  be  not  strange 

To  thyself  only.     All  will  spy  in  thy  face 

A  blushing,  womanly,  discovering  grace. 

Richly  clothed  apes  are  called  apes,  and  as  soon 

Eclips'd  as  bright  we  call  the  moon  the  moon. 

Men  of  France,  changeable  cameleons, 

Spitals  of  diseases,  shops  of  fashions, 

Love's  fuellers,  and  the  rightest  company 

Of  players,  which  upon  the  world's  stage  be, 

Will  quickly  know  thee O  stay  here !  for  the* 

England  is  only  a  worthy  gallery, 

To  walk  in  expectation  ;  till  from  thence 

Our  greatest  King  call  thee  to  his  presence. 

When  I  am  gone,  dream  me  some  happiness, 

Nor  lot  thy  looks  our  long  hid  love  confess. 

Nor  praise,  nor  dispraise  me ;  nor  bless,  nor  curse 

Cpmly  loves  force,  nor  in  bed  fright  thy  nurse 

With  midnight  startings,  crying  o  it,  Oh,  »h, 


OF  PERSONS  ONE  WOULD  WISH  TO  HAVE  SEEN.     1U5 


Nurse,  oh,  my  love  is  slain,  I  saw  him  g> 
O'er  the  white  Alps  alone  ;  I  saw  him,  I, 
Assail'd,  fight,  taken,  stabb'd,  bleed,  fall,  and  die. 
Augur  me  better  chance,  except  dread  Jove 
Think  it  enough  for  me  to  have  had  thy  love." 

Some  one  then  inquired  of  Lamb  if  we  could  not  see  from  the 
window  the  Temple-walk  in  which  Chaucer  used  to  take  his 
exercise ;  and  on  his  name  being  put  to  the  vote,  I  was  pleased 
to  find  that  there  was  a  general  sensation  in,  his  favour  in  all  but 

A ,  who  said  something  about  the  ruggedness  of  the  metre,  and 

even  objected  to  the  quaintness  of  the  orthography.  I  was  vexed 
at  this  superficial  gloss,  pertinaciously  reducing  every  thing  to 
its  own  trite  level,  and  asked  "  if  he  did  not  think  it  would  be 
worth  while.to  scan  the  eye  that  had  first  greeted  the  Muse  in 
that  dim  twilight  and  early  dawn  of  English  literature  ;  to  see 
the  head,  round  which  the  visions  of  fancy  must  have  played  like 
gleams  of  inspiration  or  a  sudden  glory ;  to  watch  those  lips  that 
'  lisped  in  numbers,  for  the  numbers  came' — as  by  a  miracle,  or 
as  if  the  dumb  should  speak  ?  Nor  was  it  alone  that  he  had  been 
the  first  to  tune  his  native  tongue  (however  imperfectly  to  modern 
ears) ;  but  he.  was  himself  a  noble,  manly  character,  standing 
before  his  age  and  striving  to  advance  it-;  a  pleasant  humourist 
withal,  who  has  not  only  handed  down  to  us  the  living  manners 
of  his  time,  but  had,  no  doubt,  store  of  curious  and  quaint  devices, 
and  would  make  as  hearty  a  companion  as  Mine  Host  of  the 
Tabard.  His  interview  with  Petrarch  is  fraught  with  interest. 
Yet  I  would  rather  have  seen  Chaucer  in  company  with  the 
author  of  the  •  Decameron,'  and  have  heard  them  exchange  their 
best  stories  together, — the  Squire's  Tale  against  the  Story  of  the 
Falcon,  the  Wife  of  Bath's  Prologue  against  the  Adventures  of 
Friar  Albert.  How  fine  to  see  the  high  mysterious  brow  which 
learning  then  wore,  relieved  by  the  gay,  familiar  tone  of  men  of 
the  world,  by  the  courtesies  of  genius  !  Surely,  the  thoughts  and 
feelings  which  passed  through  the  minds  of  these  great  revivers 
of  learning,  these  Cadmuses  who  sowed  the  teeth  of  letters,  must 
have  stamped  an  expression  on  their  features,  as  different  from 
the  moderns  as  their  books,  and  well  worth  the  perusal.  Dante," 
1  continued,  "  is  as  interesting  a  person  as  his  own  Ugolino,  ono 

16 


Jfi6  TABLE  TALK. 


whose  lineaments  curiosity  would  as  eagerly  devour  in  order  to 
penetrate  his  spirit,  and  the  only  one  of  the  Italian  poets  I  should 
care  much  to  see.  There  is  a  fine  portrait  of  Ariosto  by  no 
less  a  hand  than  Titian's  ;  light,  Moorish,  spirited,  but  not  an- 
swering our  idea.  The  same  artist's  large  colossal  profile  of 
Peter  Aretine  is  the  only  likeness  of  the  kind  that  has  the  effect 
of  conversing  with  '  the  mighty  dead,'  and  this  is  truly  spectral, 
ghastly,  necromantic."  Lamb  put  it  to  me  if  I  should  like  to  see 
Spenser  as  well  as  Qbaucer  ;  and  I  answered  without  hesitation, 
"  No  ;  for  his  beauties  were  ideal,  visionary,  not  palpable  or 
personal,  and  therefore  connected  with  less  curiosity  about  the 
man.  His  poetry  was  the  essence  of  romance,  a  very  halo  round 
the  bright  orb  of  fancy  ;  and  the  bringing  in  the  individual  might 
dissolve  the  charm.  No  tones  of  voice  could  come  up  to  the 
mellifluous  cadence  of  his  verse  ;  no  form  but  of  a  winged  angel 
could  vie  wiih  the  airy  shapes  he  has  described.  He  was  (to 
our  apprehensions)  rather  '  a  creature  of  the  element,  that  lived 
in  the  rainbow  and  played  in  the  plighted  clouds,'  than  an  ordi- 
nary mortal.  Or  if  he  did  appear,  I  should  wish  it  to  be  as  a 
mere  vision,  like  one  of  his  own  pageants,  and  that  he  should  pass 
by  unquestioned  like  a  dream  or  sound — 

'  That  was  Arion  crown'd : 

So  went  be  playing  on  the  wat'ry  plain !' " 

Captain  Burney  muttered  something  about  Columbus,  and 
Martin  Burney  hinted  at  the  Wandering  Jew;  but  the  last  was 
set  aside  as  spurious,  and  the  first  made  over  to  the  New  World. 

"  I  should  like,"  says  Mrs.  Reynolds,  "  to  have  seen  Pope 
talking  with  Patty  Blount ;  and  I  have  seen  Goldsmith."  Every 
one  turned  round  to  look  at  Mrs.  Reynolds,  as  if  by  so  doing  they 
too  could  get  a  sight  of  Goldsmith. 

"  Where,"  asked  a  harsh  croaking  voice,  "  was  Dr.  Johnson 
in  the  years  1745-6  ?  He  did  not  write  any  thing  that  we  know 
of,  nor  is  there  any  account  of  him  in  Bos  well  during  those  two 
years.  Was  he  in  Scotland  with  the  Pretender  ?  He  seems  to  have 
passed  through  the  scenes  in  the  Highlands  in  company  with 
Boswell  many  years  after  '■•  with  lack-lustre  eye,"  yet  as  if  they 


OF  PERSONS  ONE  WOULD  WISH  TO  HAVE  SEEN.     1 67 

were  familiar  to  him,  or  associated  in  his  mind  with  interests  that 
he  durst  not  explain.  If  so,  it  would  be  an  additional  reason  for 
my  liking  him  ;  and  I  would  give  something  to  have  seen  him 
seated  in  the  tent  with  the  youthful  majesty  of  Britain,  and  pen- 
ning the  proclamation  to  all  true  subjects  and  adherents  of  the 
legitimate  government." 

"  I  thought,"  said  A ,  turning  short  round  upon  Lamb,  "that 

you  of  the  Lake  School  did  not  like  Pope  ?"  "  Not  like  Pope  !  My 
dear  sir,  you  must  be  under  a  mistake — I  can  read  him  over  ana 
over  for  ever  !" — "  Why  certainly,  the  '  Essay  on  Man'  must  be 
allowed  to  be  a  masterpiece." — "  It  may  be  so,  but  I  seldom  look 
into  it." — "  Oh  !  then  it's  his  Satires  you  admire  ?" — "  No,  not 
his  Satires,  but  his  friendly  Epistles  and  his  compliments." — 
"Compliments;  I  did  not  know  he  ever  made  any." — "The 
finest,"  said  Lamb,  "  that  were  ever  paid  by  the  wit  of  man. 
Each  of  them  is  worth  an  estate  for  life — nay.  is  an  immortality 
There  is  that  superb  one  to  Lord  Cornbury : 

'  Despise  low  joys,  low  gains ; 
Disdain  whatever  Cornbury  disdains; 
Be  virtuous,  and  be  happy  for  your  pains.' 

Was  there  ever  more  artful  insinuation  of  idolatrous  praise  1 
And  then  that  noble  apotheosis  of  his  friend  Lord  Mansfield 
(however  little  deserved)  when,  speaking  of  the  House  of  Lords, 
he  adds — 

'  Conspicuous  scene !  another  yet  is  nigh, 
(More  silent  far)  where  kings  and  poets  lie; 
Where  Murray  (long  enough  his  country's  pride) 
Shall  be  no  more  than  Tully  or  than  Hyde  !' 

And  with  what  a  fine  turn  of  indignant  flattery  he  addresses 
Lord  Bolingbroke — 

'  Why  rail  they  then,  if  but  one  wreath  of  mine, 
Oh  !  all-accomplished  St  John,  deck  thy  shrine  T 

Or  turn,"  continued  Lamb,  with  a  slight  hectic  on  his  cheek  and 
his  eye  glistening,  "  to  his  list  of  early  friends  • 

16 


168  TABLE  TALK, 


'  But  why  then  publish  "?  Granville  the  polite, 
And  knowing  Walsh,  would  tell  me  I  could  write ; 
Well-natured  Garth  inflamed  with  early  praise, 
And  Congreve  loved  and  Swift  endured  my  lays: 
The  courtly  Talbot,  Somers,  Sheffield  read, 
Even  mitred  Rochester  would  nod  the  head ; 
And  St.  John's  self  (great  Dryden's  friend  before) 
Received  with  open  arms  one  poet  more. 
Happy  my  studies,  if  by  these  approved ! 
Happier  their  author,  if  by  these  beloved ! 
From  these  the  world  will  judge  of  men  and  books, 
Not  from  the  Burnets,  Oldmixons,  and  Cooks.'  " 

Here  his  voice  totally  failed  him,  and  throwing  down  the  book, 
he  said,  "  Do  you  think  I  would  not  wish  to  have  been  friends 
with  such  a  man  as  this?" 

"  What  say  you  to  Dryden  ?" — "  He  rather  made  a  show  of 
himself,  and  courted  popularity  in  that  lowest  temple  of  Fame, 
a  coffee-house,  so  as  in  some  measure  to  vulgarize  one's  idea  of 
him.  Pope,  on  the  contrary,  reached  the  very  beau  ideal  of 
what  a  poet's  life  should  be  ;  and  his  fame  while  living  seemed 
to  be  an  emanation  from  that  which  was  to  circle  his  name  after 
death.  He  was  so  far  enviable  (and  one  would  feel  proud  to 
have  witnessed  the  rare  spectacle  in  him)  that  he  was  almost  the 
only  poet  and  man  of  genius  who  met  with  his  reward  on  this 
side  of  the  tomb,  who  realized  in  friends,  fortune,  the  esteem  of 
the  world,  the  most  sanguine  hopes  of  a  youthful  ambition,  and 
who  found  that  sort  of  patronage  from  the  great  during  his  life- 
time which  they  would  be  thought  anxious  to  bestow  upon  him 
after  his  death.  Read  Gray's  verses  to  him  on  his  supposed  re- 
turn from  Greece,  after  his  translation  of  Homer  was  finished, 
and  say  if  you  would  not  gladly  join  the  bright  procession  that 
welcomed  him  home,  or  see  it  once  more  land  at  Whitehall 
stairs." — "  Still,"  said  Mrs.  Reynolds,  "  I  would  rather  have 
seen  him  talking  with  Patty  Blount,  or  riding  by  in  a  coronet- 
coach  with  Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montagu  !" 

Erasmus  Phillips,  who  was  deep  in  a  game  of  piquet  at  the 
other  end  of  the  room,  whispered  to  Martin  Burney  to  ask  if 
Junius  would  not  be  a  fit  person  to  invoke  from  the  dead. 
"  Yes,"  said  Lamb,  "  provided  he  would  agree  to  lay  aside  ms 
mask." 


OF  PERSONS  ONE  WOULD  WISH  TO  HAVE  SEEN.    169 

We  were  now  at  a  stand  for  a  short  time,  when  Fielding  was 
mentioned  as  a  candidate :  only  one,  however,  seconded  the  pro- 
position. "  Richardson  ?" — "  By  all  means,  but  only  to  look  at 
him  through  the  glass-door  of  his  back-shop,  hard  at  work  upon 
one  of  his  novels  (the  most  extraordinary  contrast  that  ever  was 
presented  between  an  author  and  his  works,)  but  not  to  let  him 
come  behind  his  counter  lest  he  should  want  you  to  turn  cus- 
tomer, nor  to  go  up-stairs  with  him,  lest  he  should  offer  to  read 
the  first  manuscript  of  Sir  Charles  Grandison,  which  was  origi- 
nally written  in  eight-and-twenty  volumes  octavo,  or  get  out  the 
letters  of  his  female  correspondents,  to  prove  that  Joseph  An- 
drews was  low." 

There  was  but  one  statesman  in  the  whole  English  history 
that  any  one  expressed  the  least  desire  to  see — Oliver  Cromwell, 
with  his  fine,  frank,  rough,  pimply  face,  and  wily  policy  ; — and 
one  enthusiast,  John  Bunyan,  the  immortal  author  of  the  '  Pil- 
grim's Progress.'  It  seemed  that  if  he  came  into  the  room, 
dreams  would  follow  him,  and  that  each  person  would  nod  under 
his  golden  cloud,  "  nigh-sphered  in  Heaven,"  a  canopy  as  strange 
and  stately  as  any  in  Homer. 

Of  all  persons  near  our  own  time,  Garrick's  name  was  re- 
ceived with  the  greatest  enthusiasm,  who  was  proposed  by  Baron 
Field.  He  presently  superseded  both  Hogarth  and  Handel,  who 
had  been  talked  of,  but  then  it  was  on  condition  that  he  should 
act  in  tragedy  and  comedy,  in  the  play  and  farce,  '  Lear'  and 
1  Wildair'  and  '  Abel  Drugger.'  What  a  sight  for  sore  eyes  that 
would  be !  Who  would  not  part  with  a  year's  income  at  least, 
almost  with  a  year  of  his  natural  life,  to  be  present  at  it  ?  Be- 
sides, as  he  could  not  act  alone,  and  recitations  are  unsatisfactory 
things,  what  a  troop  he  must  bring  with  him — the  silver-tongued 
Barry,  and  Quin,  and  Shuter  and  Weston,  and  Mrs.  Clive  and 
Mrs.  Pritchard,  of  whom  I  have  heard  my  father  speak  as  so 
great  a  favourite  when  he  was  young  !  This  would  indeed  be  a 
revival  of  the  dead,  the  restoring  of  art ;  and  so  much  the  more 
desirable,  as  such  is  the  lurking  scepticism  mingled  with  our 
overstrained  admiration  of  past  excellence,  that  though  we  have 
the  speeches  of  Burke,  the  portraits  of  Reynolds,  the.  wncing3 
of  Goldsmith,  and  the  conversation  of  Johnson,  to  show  what 


170  TABLE  TALK. 


people  could  do  at  that  period,  and  to  confirm  the  universal  tes- 
timony to  the  merits  of  Garrick ;  yet,  as  it  was  before  our  time, 
we  have  our  misgivings,  as  if  he  was  probably  after  all  little 
better  than  a  Bartlemy-fair  actor,  dressed  out  to  play  Macbeth 
in  a  scarlet  coat  and  laced  cocked-hat.  For  one,  I  should  like  to 
have  seen  and  heard  with  my  own  eyes  and  ears.  Certainly,  by 
all  accounts,  if  any  one  was  ever  moved  by  the  true  histrionic 
(Bstu's,  it  was  Garrick.  When  he  followed  the  Ghost  in  '  Ham- 
let,' he  did  not  drop  the  , sword,  as  most  actors  do,  behind  the 
scenes,  but  kept  the  point  raised  the  whole  way  round,  so  fully 
was  he  possessed  with  the  idea,  cr  so  anxious  not  to  lose  sight  of 
his  part  for  a  moment.  Once  at  a  splendid  dinner-party  at 
Lord -'s,  they  suddenly  missed  Garrick,  and  could  not  ima- 
gine what  was  become  of  him,  till  they  were  drawn  to  the  win- 
dow by  the  convulsive  screams  and  peals  of  laughter  of  a  young 
negro  boy,  who  was  rolling  on  the  ground  in  an  ecstacy  of  de- 
light to  see  Garrick  mimicking  a  turkey-cock  in  the  court-yard, 
with  his  coat-tail  stuck  out  behind,  and  in  a  seeming  flutter  of 
feathered  rage  and  pride.  Of  our  party  only  two  persons 
present  had  seen  the  British  Roscius ;  and  they  seemed  as  will- 
ing as  the  rest  to  renew  their  acquaintance  with  their  old  fa- 
vourite. 

We  were  interrupted  in  the  hey-day  and  mid-career  of  this 
fanciful  speculation,  by  a  grumbler  in  a  corner,  who  declared  it 
was  a  shame  to  make  all  this  rout  about  a  mere  player  and 
farce-writer,  to  the  neglect  and  exclusion  of  the  fane  old  dra- 
matists, the  contemporaries  and  rivals  of  Shakespear.  Lamb 
said  he  had  anticipated  this  objection  when  he  had  named  the 
author  of  '  Mustapha  and  Alaham  ;'  and  out  of  caprice  insisted 
upon  keeping  him  to  represent  the  set,  in  preference  to  the  wild 
hair-brained  enthusiast  Kit  Marlowe  ;  to  the  sexton  of  St.  Ann's, 
Webster,  with  his  melancholy  yew-trees  and  death's-heads  ;  to 
Deckar,  who  was  but  a  garrulous  proser ;  to  the  voluminous 
Hey  wood  ;  and  even  to  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  whom  we  might 
offend  by  complimenting  the  wrong  author  on  their  joint  produc- 
tions. Lord  Brook,  on  the  contrary,  stood  quite  by  himself,  or 
in  Cowley's  words,  was  "  a  vast  species  alone."  Some  one 
hinted  at  tne  circumstance  of  his  being  a  lord,  which  rathei 


OF  PERSONS  ONE  WOULD  WISH  TO  HAVE  SEEN.    171 

startled  Lamb,  but  he  said  a  ghost  would  perhaps  dispense  with 
strict  etiquette,  on  being  regularly  addressed  by  his  title.  Ben 
Jonson  divided  our  suffrages  pretty  equally.  Some  were  afraid 
he  would  begin  to  traduce  Shakespear,  who  was  not  present  to 
defend  himself.  "  If  he  grows  disagreeable,"  it  was  whispered 
aloud,  "  there  is  Godwin  can  match  him."  At  length,  his  ro- 
mantic visit  to  Drummond  of  Hawthornden  was  mentioned,  and 
turned  the  scale  in  his  favor. 

Lamb  inquired  if  there  was  any  one  that  was  hanged  that  I 
would  choose  to  mention  ?  And  I  answered,  Eugene  Aram.* 
The  name  of  the  "  Admirable  Crichton"  was  suddenly  started 
as  a  splendid  example  of  waste  talents,  so  different  from  the  gen- 
erality of  his  countrymen.  This  choice  was  mightily  approved 
by  a  North-Briton  present,  who  declared  himself  descended  from 
that  prodigy  of  learning  and  accomplishment,  and  said  he  had 
family  plate  in  his  possession  as  vouchers  for  the  fact,  with  the 
initials  A.  C. — Admirable  Crichton!  Hunt  laughed  or  rather 
roared  as  heartily  at  this  as  I  should  think  he  has  done  for  many 
years. 

The  last-named  Mitre-courtierj"  then  wished  to  know  whether 
there  were  any  metaphysicians  to  whom  one  might  be  tempted  to 
apply  the  wizard  spell  ?  I  replied,  there  were  only  six  in 
modern  times  deserving  the  name — Hobbes,  Berkeley,  Butler, 
Hartley,  Hume,  Leibnitz ;  and  perhaps  Jonathan  Edwards,  a 
Massachusetts  man.:}:  As  to  the  French,  who  talked  fluently  of 
having  created  this  science,  there  was  not  a  tittle  in  any  of  their 
writings,  that  was  not  to  be  found  literally  in  the  authors  I  had 
mentioned.     Home  [Home  Tooke,  who  might  have  a  claim  to 

*  See  '  Newgate  Calendar'  for  1758. 

t  Lamb  at  this  time  occupied  chambers  in  Mitre  court,  Fleet  street. 

t  Lord  Bacon  is  not  included  in  this  list,  nor  do  I  know  where  he  should 
come  in.  It  is  not  easy  to  make  room  for  him  and  his  reputation  together. 
This  great  and  celebrated  man  in  some  of  his  works  recommends  it  to  pour 
a  bottle  of  claret  into  the  ground  of  a  morning,  and  to  stand  over  it,  inhaling 
the  perfumes.  So  he  sometimes  enriched  the  dry  and  barren  soil  of  specula- 
tion with  the  fine  aromatic  spirit  of  his  genius.  His  'Essays'  and  his  '  Ad- 
vancement of  Learning,'  are  works  of  vast  depth  and  scope  of  observation. 
The  last,  tnough  it  contains  no  positive  discoveries,  is  a  noble  cfc.art  of  the 
human  intellect,  and  a  guide  to  all  future  inquirers. 
12 PART    II. 


172  TABLE  TALK. 

come  in  under  the  head  of  Grammar,  was  still  living.]  None 
of  these  names  seemed  to  excite  much  interest,  and  I  did  not 
plead  for  the  re-appearance  of  those  who  might  be  thought  best 
fitted  by  the  abstracted  nature  of  their  studies  for  their  present 
spiritual  and  disembodied  state,  and  who,  even  while  on  this 
living  stage,  we*e  nearly  divested  of  common  flesh  and  blood. 

As  A with  an  uneasy  fidgetty  face  was  about  to  put  some 

question  about  Mr.  Locke  and  Dugald  Stewart,  he  was  prevented 
by  Martin  Burney,  who  observed,  "  If  J — '• —  was  here,  he  would  un- 
doubtedly be  for  having  up  those'  profound  and  redoubted  scho- 
liasts, Thomas  Aquinas  and  Duns  Scotus."  I  said  this  might  be 
fair  enough  in  him  who  had  read  or  fancied  he  had  read  the 
original  works,  but  I  did  not  see  how  we  could  have  any  right 
to  call  up  those  authors  to  give  an  account  of  themselves  in  per- 
son, till  we  had  looked  into  their  writings. 

By  this  time  it  should  seem  that  some  rumor  of  our  whim- 
sical deliberation  had  got  wind,  and  had  disturbed  the  irritabile 
genus  in  their  shadowy  abodes,  for  we  received  messages  from 
several  candidates  that  we  had  just  been  thinking  of.  Gray 
declined  our  invitation,  though  he  had  not  yet  been  asked :  Gay 
offered  to  come  and  bring  in  his  hand  the  Duchess  of  Bolton,  the 
original  Polly:  Steel  and  Addison  left  their  cards  as  Captain 
Sentry  and  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley :  Swift  came  in  and  sat  down 
without  speaking  a  word,  and  quitted  the  room  as  abruptly :  Ot- 
way  and  Chatterton  were  seen  lingering  on  the  opposite  side  of 
the  Styx,  but  could  not  muster  enough  between  them  to  pay 
Charon  his  fare  :  Thomson  fell  asleep  in  the  boat,  and  was  rowed 
back  again — and  Burns  sent  a  low  fellow,  one  John  Barleycorn, 
an  old  companion  of  his  who  had  conducted  him  to  the  other 
world,  to  say  that  he  had  during  his  life-time  been  drawn  out  of 
his  retirement  as  a  show,  only  to  be  made  an  exciseman  of,  and 
that  he  would  rather  remain  where  he  was.  He  desired,  how- 
ever, to  shake  hands  by  his  representative — the  hand,  thus  held 
out,  was  in  a  burning  fever,  and  shook  prodigiously. 

The  room  was  hung  round  with  several  portraits  of  eminent 
painters.  While  we  were  debating  whether  we  should  demand 
speech  with  these  masters  of  mute  eloquence,  whose  features 
were  so  familiar  to  us,  it  seemed  that  all  at  once  they  glided 


OF  PERSONS  ONE  WOULD  WISH  TO  HAVE  SEEN.    173 

from  their  frames,  and  seated  themselves  at  some  little  distance 
from  us.  There  was  Leonardo  with  his  majestic  beard  and 
watchful  eye,  having  a  bust  of  Archimedes  before  him ;  next 
him  was  Raphael's  graceful  head  turned  round  to  the  Fornarina  ; 
and  on  his  other  side  was  Lucretia  Borgia,  with  calm,  golden 
locks ;  Michael  Angelo  had  placed  the  model  of  St.  Peter's  on 
the  table  before  him  ;  Correggio  had  an  angel  at  his  side  ;  Titian 
was  seated  with  his  Mistress  between  himself  and  Giorgioni ; 
Guido  was  accompanied  by  his  own  Aurora,  who  took  a  dice- 
box  from  him  j  Claude  held  a  mirror  in  his  hand;  Rubens 
patted  a  beautiful  panther  (led  in  by  a  satyr)  on  the  head  ;  Van- 
dyke  appeared  as  his  own  Paris,  and  Rembrandt  was  hid  under 
furs,  gold  chains,  and  jewels,  which  Sir  Joshua  eyed  closely, 
holding  his  hand  so  as  to  shade  his  forehead.  Not  a  word  was 
spoken ;  and  as  we  rose  to  do  them  homage,  they  still  presented 
the  same  surface  to  the  view.  Not  being  bond  fde  representa- 
tions of  living  people,  we  got  rid  of  the  splendid  apparitions  by 
signs  and  dumb  show.  As  soon  as  they  had  melted  into  thin 
air,  there  was  a  loud  noise  at  the  outer  door,  and  we  found  it  was 
Giotto,  Cimabue,  and  Ghirlandaio,  who  had  been  raised  from  the 
dead  by  their  earnest  desire  to  see  their  illustrious  successors— 

"  Whose  names  on  earth 
In  Fame's  eternal  records  live  for  aye !" 

Finding  them  gone,  they  had  no  ambition  to  be  seen  after  them, 
and  moutp fully  withdrew.  "Egad!"  said  Lamb,  "those  are 
the  very  fallows  I  should  like  to  have  had  some  talk  with,  to 
know  how  they  could  see  to  paint  when  all  was  dark  around 
them  ?" 

"  But  shall  we  have  nothing  to  say,"  interrogated  G.  J , 

"  to  the  Legend  of  Good  Women  ?" — "  Name, name,  Mr.  J ," 

cried  Hunt  in  a  boisterous  tone  of  friendly  exultation,  "  name 
as  many  as  you  please,  without  reserve  or  fear  of  molestation  !" 

J was   perplexed   between  so  many  amiable  recollections, 

that  the  na.p.e  of  the  lady  of  his  choice  expired  in  a  pensive 
whiff  of  b.s  pipe ;  and  Lamb  impatiently  declared  for  the 
Duchess  of  Newcastle.  Mrs.  Hutchinson  was  no  sooner  men- 
tioned,  than  she  carried  the  day  from  the  Duchess.     We  were 

10* 


174      •  TABLE  TALK. 


the  less  solicitous  on  this  subject  of  filling  up  the  posthumous 
lists  of  Good  Women,  as  there  was  already  one  in  the  room  as 
good,  as  sensible,  and  in  all  respects  as  exemplary,  as  the  best 
of  them  could  be  for  their  lives  !  "  I  should  like  vastly  to  have 
seen  Ninon  de  l'Enclos,"  said  that  incomparable  person ;  and 
this  immediately  puts  us  in  mind  that  we  had  neglected  to  pay 
honour  due  to  our  friends  on  the  other  side  of  the  Channel :  Vol- 
taire, the  patriarch  of  levity,  and  Rousseau,  the  father  of  senti 
ment,  Montaigne  and  Rabelais  (great  in  wisdom  and  in  wit),  Mo- 
lie  re  and  that  illustrious  group  that  are  collected  round  him  (in 
the  print  of  that  subject)  to  hear  him  read  his  comedy  of  the 
?  Tartuffe'  at  the  house  of  Ninon ;  Racine,  La  Fontaine,  Rcche- 
foucault,  St.  Evremont,  &c. 

"  There  is  one  person,"  said  a  shrill,  querulous  voice,  "  I 
would  rather  see  than  all  these — Don  Quixote  !" 

"Come,  come!"  said  Hunt,  "  I  thought  we  should  have  no 
heroes,  real  or  fabulous.  What  say  you,  Mr.  Lamb  ?  Are  you 
for  eking  out  your  shadowy  list  with  such  names  as  Alexander, 
Julius  Csesar,  Tamerlane,  or  Ghenghis  Khan  ?" — "  Excuse  me," 
said  Lamb  ;  "  on  the  subject  of  characters  in  active  life,  plot- 
ters and  disturbers  of  the  world,  I  have  a  crotchet  of  my  own, 
which  I  beg  leave  to  reserve." — "No,  no!  come, out  with  your 
worthies !" — "  What  do  you  think  of  Guy  Fawkes  and  Judas 
Iscariot  ?"  Hunt  turned  an  eye  upon  him  like  a  wild  Indian, 
but  cordial  and  full  of  smothered  glee.     "  Your  most  exquisite 

reason  !"  was  echoed  on  all  sides ;  and  A thought  that  Lamb 

had  now  fairly  entangled  himself.  "  Why,  I  cannot  but  think," 
retorted  he  of  the  wistful  countenance,  "  that  Guy  Fawkes,  that 
poor,  fluttering  annual  scare-crow  of  straw  and  rags,  is  an  ill- 
used  gentleman.  I  would  give  something  to  see  him  sitting  pale 
and  emaciated,  surrounded  by  his  matches  and  his  barrels  of 
gunpowder,  and  expecting  the  moment  that  was  to  transport  him 
to  Paradise  for  his  heroic  self-devotion ;  but  if  I  say  any  more, 
there  is  that  fellow  Godwin  will  make  something  of  it.  And  as 
to  Judas  Iscariot,  my  reason  is  different.  I  would  fain  see  the 
face  of  him,  who,  having  dipped  his  hand  in  the  same  dish  with 
the  Son  of  Man,  could  afterwards  betray  him.  I  have  no  con- 
ception of  such  a  thing;  nor  have  I  ever  seen  any  picture  (not 


OF  PERSONS  ONE  WOULD  WISH  TO  HAVE  SEEN.     175 

even  Leonardo's  very  fine  one)  that  gave  me  the  least  idea  of 
it." — "  You  have  said  enough,  Mr.  Lamb,  to  justify  youi 
choice." 

"  Oh  !  ever  right,  Menenius, — ever  right !" 

"  There  is  only  one  other  person  I  can  ever  think  of  after 
this,"  continued  Lamb;  but  without  mentioning  a  name  that 
once  put  on  a  semblance  of  mortality.  "  If  Shakespear  was 
to  come  into  the  room,  we  should  all  rise  up  to  meet  him ;  but 
if  that  person  was  to  come  into  it,  we  should  all  fall  down  and 
try  to  kiss  the  hem  of  his  garment !" 

As  a  lady  present  seemed  now  to  get  uneasy  at  the  turn  the 
conversation  had  taken,  we  rose  up  to  go.  The  morning  broke 
with  that  dim,  dubious  light  by  which  Giotto,  Cimabu.e,  and 
Ghirlandaio  must  have  seen  to  paint  their  earliest  works ;  and 
we  parted  to  meet  again  and  renew,  similar  topics  at  night,  the 
next  night,  and  the  night  after  that,  till  that  night  overspread 
Europe  which  saw  no  dawn.  The  same  event,  in  truth,  broke 
up  our  little  Congress  that  broke  up  the  great  one.  But  that 
was  to  meet  again :  our  deliberations  have  never  been  resumed 


176  TABLE  TALK. 


ESSAY  XXIX. 

Tke  Shyiiiss  of  Scnolars. 

"  Ar.I  cf  his  port  as  meek  as  is  a  mdd." 

Scholars  lead  a  contemplative  and  retired  life,  both  which  circum- 
stances must  be  supposed  to  contribute  to  the  effect  in  question. 
A  life  of  study  is  also  conversant  with  high  and  ideal  models, 
which  gives  an  ambitious  turn  to  the  mind ;  and  pride  is  nearly 
akin  to  delicacy  of  feelings 

That  a  life  of  privacy  and  obscurity  should  render  its  votaries 
bashful  and  awkward,  or  unfit  them  for  the  routine  of  society, 
from  the  want  both  of  a  habit  of  going  into  company  and  from 
ignorance  of  its  usages,  is  obvious  to  remark.  No  one  can  be 
expected  to  do  that  well  or  without  a  certain  degree  of  hesitation 
and  restraint,  which  he  is  not  accustomed  to  do  except  on  parti- 
cular occasions,  and  at  rare  intervals.  You  might  as  rationally 
set  a  scholar  or  a  clown  on  a  tight-rope  and  expect  them  to  dance 
gracefully  and  with  every  appearance  of  ease,  as  introduce  either 
into  the  -  gay,  laughing  circle,  and  suppose  that  he  will  acquit 
himself  handsomely  and  come  off  with  applause  in  the  retailing 
of  anecdote  or  the  interchange  of  repartee.  "  If  you  have  not 
seen  the  Court,  your  manners  must  be  naught;  and  if  your 
manners  are  naught,  you  must  be  damned,"  according  to  Touch- 
stone's reasoning.  The  other  cause  lies  rather  deeper,  and  is  so 
far  better  worth  considering,  perhaps.  A  student,  then,  that  is, 
a  man  who  condemns  himself  to  toil  for  a  length  of  time  and 
through  a  number  of  volumes  in  order  to  arrive  at  a  conclusion, 
naturally  loses  that  smartness  and  ease  which  distinguish  the 
gay  and  thoughtless  rattler.  There  is  a  certain  elasticity  of 
movement  and  hey-day  of  the  animal  spirits  seldom  to  be  met 
with  but  in  those  who  have  never  cared  for  any  thing  beyond  tha 
moment,  or  looked  lower  than  the  surface.     The  scholar  having 


THE  SHYJSESS  OF  SCHOLARS.  lT7 

io  encounter  doubts  and  difficulties  on  all  hands,  and  indeed  to 
apply  by  way  of  preference  to  those  subjects  which  are  most 
beset  with  mystery,  becomes  hesitating,  sceptical,  irresolute,  ab- 
sent, dull.  All  the  processes  of  his  mind  are  slow,  cautious, 
circuitous,  instead  of  being  prompt,  heedless,  straight-forward. 
Finding  the  intricacies  of  the  path  increase  upon  him  in  every 
direction,  this  can  hardly  be  supposed  to  add  to  the  lightness  of 
his  step,  the  confidence  of  his  brow  as  he  advances.  He  does 
not  skim  the  surface,  but  dives  under  it  like  the  mole  to  make 
his  way  darkling,  by  imperceptible  degrees  and  throwing  up 
heaps  of  dirt  and  rubbish  over  his  head  to  track  his  progress. 
He  is  therefore  startled  at  any  sudden  light,  puzzled  by  any 
casual  question,  taken  unawares  and  at  a  disadvantage  in  every 
critical  emergency.  He  must  have  time  given  him  to  collect  his 
thoughts,  to  consider  objections  to  make  farther  inquiries,  and 
come  to  no  conclusion  at  last. 

This  is  very  different  from  the  dashing,  off-hand  manner  of  the 
mere  man  of  business  or  fashion ;  and  he  who  is  repeatedly 
found  in  situations  to  which  he  is  unequal  (particularly  if  he  is 
of  a  reflecting  and  candid  temper)  will  be  apt  to  look  foolish,  and 
to  lose  both  his  countenance  and  his  confidence  in  himself — at 
least  as  to  the  opinion  others  entertain  of  him,  and  the  figure  he 
is  likely  on  any  occasion  to  make  in  the  eyes  of  the  world.  The 
course  of  his  studies  has  not  made  him  wise,  but  has  taught  him 
the  uncertainty  of  wisdom  ;  and  has  supplied  him  with  excellent 
reasons  for  suspending  his  judgment,  when  another  would  throw 
the  casting-weight  of  his  own  presumption  or  interest  into  the 
scale. 

The  inquirer  after  truth  learns  to  take  nothing  for  granted ; 
least  of  all,  to  make  an  assumption  of  his  own  superior  merits 
He  would  have  nothing  proceed  without  proper  proofs  and  an 
exact  scrutiny  ;  and  would  neither  be  imposed  upon  himself,  noi 
impose  upon  others  by  shallow  and  hasty  appearances.  It  taket 
years  of  patient  toil  and  devoted  enthusiasm  to  master  any  art 
or  science;  and,  after  all,  the  success  is  doubtful.  He  infers 
that  other  triumphs  must  be  prepared  in  like  manner  at  an 
humble  distance :  he  cannot  bring  himself  to  imagine  that  any 
object  worth  seizing  on  or  deserving  of  regard,  can  be  carried 


178  TABLE  TALK. 


by  a  coup  de  main.  So  far  from  being  proud  or  puffed  up  by 
them,  he  would  be  ashamed  and  degraded  in  Ids  own  opinion  by 
any  advantages  that  were  to  be  obtained  by  such  cheap  and  vul- 
gar means  as  putting  a  good  face  on  the  matter,  as  strutting  and 
vapouring  about  his  own  pretensions.  He  would  not  place  him- 
self on  a  level  with  bullies  "or  coxcombs  ;  nor  believe  that  those 
whose  favour  he  covets,  can  be  the  dupes  of  either.  Whatever 
is  excellent  in  his  fanciful  creed  is  hard  of  attainment ;  and  he 
would  (perhaps  absurdly  enough)  have  the  means  in  all  cases 
answerable  to  the  end.  He  knows  that  there  are  difficulties  in 
his  favourite  pursuits  to  puzzle  the  will,  to  tire  the  patience,  to 
unbrace  the  strongest  nerves,  and  make  the  stoutest  courage 
quail ;  and  he  would  fain  think  that  if  there  is  any  object  more 
worthy  than  another  to  call  forth  the  earnest  solicitude,  the  hopes 
and  fears  of  a  wise  man,  and  to  make  his  heart  yearn  within 
him  at  the  most  distant  prospect  of  success,  this  precious  prize 
in  the  grand  lottery  of  life  is  not  to  be  had  for  the  asking  for,  or 
from  the  mere  easy  indifference  or  overbearing  effrontery  with 
which  you  put  in  your  claim.  He  is  aware  that  it  will  be  long 
enough  before  any  one  paints  a  fine  picture  by  walking  up  and 
down  and  admiring  himself  in  the  glass ;  or  writes  a  fine  poem 
by  being  delighted  with  the  sound  of  his  own  voice  ;  or  solves  a 
single  problem  in  philosophy  by  swaggering  and  haughty  airs. 
He  conceives  that  it  is  the  same  with  the  way  of  the  world — 
woos  the  fair  as  he  woos  the  Muse ;  in  conversation,  never  puts 
in  a  word  till  he  has  something  better  to  say  than  any  one  else 
in  the  room;  in  business,  never  strikes  while  the  iron  is  hot,  and 
flings  away  all  his  advantages  by  endeavouring  to  prove  to  his 
own  and  the  satisfaction  of  others,  that  he  is  clearly  entitled  to 
them.  It  never  once  enters  into  his  head  (till  it  is  too  late)  that 
impudence  is  the  current  coin  in  the  affairs  of  life ;  that  he  who 
doubts  his  own  merit,  never  has  credit  given  him  by  others ;  that 
Fortune  does  not  stay  to  have  her  overtures  canvassed  ;  that  he 
who  neglects  opportunity,  can  seldom  command  it  a  second  time  ; 
that  the  world  judge  by  appearances,  not  by  realities ;  and  that 
they  sympathize  more  readily  with  those  who  are  prompt  to  do 
themselves  justice,  and  to  show  off  their  various  qualifications 
or  enforce  their  pretensions  to  the  utmost,  than  with  those  who 


THE  SHYNESS  OF  SCHOLARS.  179 


wait  for  others  to  award  their  claims,  and  carry  their  fastidious 
refinement  into  helplessness  and  imbecility-  Thus  "  fools  rush 
in  where  angels  fear  to  tread ;"  and  modest  merit  finds  to  its 
cost,  that  the  bold  hand  and  dauntless  brow  succeed  where  tim- 
idity and  bashfulness  are  pushed  aside ;  that  the  gay,  laughing 
eye  is  preferred  to  dejection  and  gloom,  health  and  animal  spirits 
to  the  shattered,  sickly  frame  and  trembling  nerves ;  and  that  to 
succeed  in  life,  a  man  should  carry  about  with  him  the  outward 
and  incontrovertible  signs  of  success,  and  of  his  satisfaction  with 
himself  and  his  prospects,  instead  of  plaguing  every  body  near 
him  with  fantastical  scruples  and  his  ridiculous  anxiety  to  realize 
an  unattainable  standard  of  perfection.  From  holding  back  him- 
self, the  speculative  enthusiast  is  thrust  back  by  others  :  his  pre 
tensions  are  insulted  and  trampled  on ;  and  the  repeated  and 
pointed  repulses  he  ir.eets  with,  make  him  still  more  unwilling 
to  encounter,  and  more  unable  to  contend,  with  those  that  await 
him  in  the  prosecution  of  his  career.  He  therefore  retires  from 
the  contest  altogether,  or  remains  in  the  back-ground,  a  passive 
but  uneasy  spectator  of  a  scene  in  which  he  finds  from  expe- 
rience, that  confidence,  alertness,  and  superficial  acquirements 
are  of  more  avail  than  all  the  refinement  and  delicacy  in  the 
world. 

Action,  in  truth,  is  referable  chiefly  to  quickness  and  strength 
of  resolution,  rather  than  to  depth  of  reasoning  or  scrupulous 
nicety  :  again,  it  is  to  be  presumed  that  those  who  show  a  popular 
reliance  on  themselves,  will  not  betray  the  trust  we  place  in  them 
through  pusillanimity  or  want  of  spirit :  in  what  relates  to  the 
opinion  of  others,  which  is  often  formed  hastily  and  on  slight  ac- 
quaintance, much  must  be  allowed  to  what  strikes  the  senses,  to 
what  excites  the  imagination  ;  and  in  all  popular  worldly  schemes, 
popular  and  worldly  means  must  be  resorted  to,  instead  of  de- 
pending wholly  on  the  hidden  and  intrinsic  merits  of  the  case. 

"  In  peace,  there's  nothing  so  becomes  a  man 
As  modest  stillness,  and  humility : 
But  when  the  blast  of  war  blows  in  our  ears, 
Then  imitate  the  action  of  the  tiger, 
Stiffen  the  sinews,  summon  up  the  blood, 
Disguise  fair  nature  with  hard-fa vour'd  rage : 


180  TABLE  TALK. 


Then  lend  the  eye  a  terrible  aspect; 

Let  it  pry  through  the  portage  of  the  head, 

Like  the  brass  cannon  ;  let  the  brow  o'erwhelm  it, 

As  fearfully  as  doth  a  galled  rock 

O'erhang  and  jutty  his  confounded  base, 

Swill'd  with  the  wild  and  wasteful  ocean." 

This  advice  (sensible  as  it  is)  is  abhorrent  to  the  nature  of  a 
man  who  is  accustomed  to  place  all  his  hopes  of  victory  in  rea- 
soning and  reflection  only.  The  noisy,  rude,  gratuitous  success 
of  those  who  have  taken  so  much  less  pains  to  deserve  it  disgusts 
and  disheartens  him — he  loses  his  self-possession  and  self-esteem, 
has  no  standard  left  by  which  to  measure  himself  or  others,  and 
as  he  cannot  be  brought  to  admire  them,  persuades  himself  at 
last  that  the  blame  rests  with  himself;  and  instead  of  bespeaking 
a  fashionable  dress,  learning  to  bow,  or  taking  a  few  lessons  in 
boxing  or  fencing  to  brace  his  nerves  or  raise  his  spirits,  aggra- 
vates all  his  former  faults  by  way  of  repairing  them,  grows  more 
jealous  of  the  propriety  of  every  word  and  look,  lowers  his  voice 
into  a  whisper,  gives  his  style  the  last  polish,  reconsiders  his  ar- 
guments till  they  evaporate  in  a  sigh,  and  thus  satisfies  himself 
that  he  can  hardly  fail ;  that  men  judge  impartially  in  the  end, 
that  the  public  will  sooner  or  later  do  him  justice,  Fortune 
smile,  and  the  Fair  no  longer  be  averse !  Oh  malore  !  He  is 
just  where  he  was,  or  ten  times  worse  off"  than  ever. 

There  is  another  circumstance  that  tends  not  a  little  to  perplex 
the  judgment,  and  add  to  the  difficulties  of  the  retired  student, 
when  he  comes  out  into  the  world.  He  is  like  one  dropped  from 
the  clouds.  He  has  hitherto  conversed  chiefly  with  historic  per- 
sonages and  abstract  propositions,  and  has  no  just  notion  of  actual 
men  and  things.  He  does  not  well  know  how  to  reconcile  the 
sweeping  conclusions  he  has  been  taught  to  indulge  in  to  the 
cautious  and  pliant  maxims  of  the  world,  nor  how  to  compare 
himself,  an  inhabitant  of  Utopia,  with  sublunary  mortals.  He 
has  been  habituated  all  his  life  to  look  up  to  a  few  great  names 
handed  down  by  virtue  or  science  as  the  "  gods  of  his  idolatry," 
as  the  fixed  stars  in  the  firmament  of  reputation,  and  to  have 
some  respect  for  himself  and  other  learned  men  as  votaries  at 


THE  SHYNESS  OF  SCHOLARS.  .31 

the  shrine  and  as  appreciating  the  merits  of  their  idol ;  but  all 
the  rest  of  the  world,  who  are  neither  the  objects  of  this  sort  of 
homage,  nor  concerned  as  a  sort  of  priesthood  in  collecting  and 
paying  it,  he  looks  upon  as  actually  nobody,  or  as  worms  crawl- 
ing upon  the  face  of  the  earth  without  intellectual  value  or  pre- 
tensions. He  is,  therefore,  a  little  surprised  and  shocked  to  find, 
when  he  deigns  to  mingle  with  his  fellows,  those  every-day  mor- 
tals, on  ordinary  terms,  that  they  are  of  a  height  nearly  equal  to 
himself,  that  they  have  words,  ideas,  feelings  in  common  with  the 
best,  and  are  not  the  mere  cyphers  he  had  been  led  to  consider 
them.  From  having  under-rated  he  comes  to  over-rate  them. 
Having  dreamt  of  no  such  thing,  he  is  more  struck  with  what  he 
finds  than  perhaps  it  deserves ;  magnifies  the  least  glimpse 
of  sense  or  humour  into  sterling  wit  or  wisdom  ;  is  startled  by 
any  objection  from  so  unexpected  a  quarter  ;  thinks  his  own  ad- 
vantages of  no  avail,  because  they  are  not  the  only  ones ;  and 
shrinks  from  an  encounter  with  weapons  he  has  not  been  used  to, 
and  from  a  struggle  by  which  he  feels  himself  degraded.  The 
Knight  of  La  Mancha,  when  soundly  beaten  by  the  packstaves 
of  the  Yanguesian  carriers,  laid  all  the  blame  on  his  having  con- 
descended to  fight  with  plebeians.  The  pride  of  learning  comes 
in  to  aid  the  awkwardness  and  bashfulness  of  the  inexperienced 
novice,  converting  his  want  of  success  into  the  shame  and  morti- 
fication of  defeat  in  what  he  habitually  considers  as  a  contest 
with  inferiors.  Indeed,  those  will  always  be  found  to  submit  with 
the  worst  grace  to  any  check  or  reverse  of  this  kind  in  common 
conversation  or  reasoning,  who  have  been  taught  to  set  the  most 
exclusive  and  disproportioned  value  on  letters  :  and  the  most  en- 
lightened and  accomplished  scholars  will  be  less  likely  to  be 
humbled  or  put  to  the  blush  by  the  display  of  common  sense  or 
native  talent,  than  the  more  ignorant,  self-sufficient,  and  pedantic 
among  the  learned ;  for  that  ignorance,  self-sufficiency,  and  pe- 
dantry, are  sometimes  to  be  reckoned  among  the  attributes  of 
learning,  cannot  be  disputed.  These  qualities  are  not  very  re- 
concilable with  modest  merit ;  but  they  are  quite  consistent  with 
a  great  deal  of  blundering,  confusion,  and  want  of  tact  in  the  com- 
merce of  the  world.     The  genuine  scholar  retires  from  an  une- 


182  TABLE  TALK. 


qual  conflict  from  silence  and  obscurity  :  the  pedant  swells  into 
self-importance,  and  renders  himself  conspicuous  by  pompou?  Ar- 
rogance and  absurdity ! 

It  is  hard  upon  those  who  have  ever  taken  pains  or  done  any 
thing  to  distinguish  themselves,  that  they  are  seldom  the  trjm- 
peLTs  of  their  own  achievements  ;  and  I  believe  it  may  be  laid 
down  as  a  rule,  that  we  receive  just  as  much  homage  from 
others  as  we  exact  from  them  by  our  own  declarations,  looks,  and 
manner.  But  no  one  who  has  performed  any  thing  great  looks 
big  upon  it :  those  who  have  any  thing  to  boast  of  are  generally 
sflent  on  that  head,  and  altogether  shv  of  the  subject.  With 
Coriolanus,  they  "  will  not  have  their  nothings  monster'd."  From 
familiarity,  his  own  acquirements  do  not  appear  so  extraordinary 
to  the  individual  as  to  others ;  and  there  is  a  natural  want  of 
sympathy  in  this  respect.  No  one  who  is  really  capable  of  great 
things  is  proud  or  vain  of  his  success  ;  for  he  thinks  more  of  what 
he  had  hoped  or  has  failed  to  do,  than  of  what  he  has  done.  A 
habit  of  extreme  exertion,  or  of  anxious  suspense,  is  not  one  of 
buoyant,  overweening  self-complacency  :  those  who  have  all  their 
lives  tasked  their  faculties  to  the  utmost,  may  be  supposed  to  have 
quite  enough  to  do  without  having  much  disposition  left  to  antici- 
pate their  success  with  confidence,  or  to  glory  in  it  afterwards. 
The  labours  ol  the  mind,  like  the  drudgery  of  the  body,  depress 
and  take  away  the  usual  alacrity  of  the  spirits.  Nor  can  such 
persons  be  lifted  up  with  the  event ;  for  the  impression  of  the 
consequences  to  result  from  any  arduous  undertaking  must  be 
light  and  vain,  compared  with  the  toil  and  anxiety  accompany- 
ing it.  It  is  only  those  who  have  done  nothing,  who  fancy  they 
can  do  every  thing ;  or  who  have  leisure  and  inclination  to  ad- 
mire themselves.  To  sit  before  a  glass  and  smile  delighted  a{ 
our  own  image,  is  merely  a  tax  on  our  egotism  and  self-conceit ; 
and  these  are  resources  not  easily  exhausted  in  some  persons ;  or 
if  they  are,  the  deficiency  is  supplied  by  flatterers,  who  surround 
the  vain  like  a  natural  atmosphere.  Fools  who  take  all  their 
opinions  at  second-hand  cannot  resist  the  coxcomb's  delight  in 
himself:  or  it  might  be  said  that  folly  is  the  natural  mirror  of 
vanity. 

The  greatest  heroes,  it  has  often  been  observed,  do  not  show  it 


THE  SHYNESS  OF  SCHOLARS.  183 

in  their  faces ;  nor  do  philosophers  affect  to  be  thought  wise. 
Little  minds  triumph  on  small  occasions,  or  over  puny  competi- 
tors :  the  loftiest  wish  for  higher  opportunities  of  signalizing  them- 
selves, or  compare  themselves  with  those  models  that  leave  them 
no  room  for  flippant  exultation.  Either  great  things  are  accom- 
plished with  labour  and  pains,  which  stamp  their  impression  on 
the  general  character  and  tone  of  feeling  ;  or  if  this  should  not 
be  the  case  (as  sometimes  happens),  and  they  are  the  effect  of 
genius  and  a  happiness  of  nature,  then  they  cost  too  little  to  be 
munh  thought  of,  and  we  rather  wonder  at  others  for  admiring 
them,  than  at  ourselves  for  having  performed  them.  "  Vix  ea 
nostra  voco" — is  the  motto  of  spontaneous  talent ;  and  in  neither 
case  is  conceit  the  exuberant  growth  of  great  original  power  or 
of  great  attainments. 

In  one  particular,  the  uneducated  man  carries  it  hollow  against 
the  man  of  thought  and  refinement :  the  first  can  shoot  in  the 
long  bow,  which  the  last  cannot  for  the  life  of  him.  He  who  has 
spent  the  best  part  of  his  time  and  wasted  his  best  powers  in  en- 
deavouring to  answer  the  question,  "  What  is  truth?" — scorns  a 
lie,  and  every  thing  making  the  smallest  approach  to  one.  His 
mind  by  habit  has  become  tenacious  of,  devoted  to  the  truth.  The 
grossness  and  vulgarity  of  falsehood  shock  the  delicacy  of  his 
perceptions,  as  much  as  it  would  shock  the  finest  artist  to  be 
obliged  to  daub  in  a  sign-post,  or  scrawl  a  caricature.  He  can- 
not make  up  his  mind  to  derive  any  benefit  from  so  pitiful  and 
disgusting  a  source.  Tell  me  that  a  man  is  a  metaphysician, 
and  at  the  same  time  that  he  is  given  to  shallow  and  sordid  boast- 
ing, and  I  will  not  believe  you.  After  striving  to  raise  himself 
to  an  equality  with  truth  and  nature  by  patient  investigation  and 
refined  distinctions  (which  few  can  make) — whether  he  succeed 
or  fail,  he  cannot  stoop  to  acquire  a  spurious  reputation,  or  to 
advance  himself  or  lessen  others  by  paltry  artifice  and  idle  rho- 
domontade,  which  are  in  every  one's  power  w,io  has  never  known 
the  value  or  undergone  the  labour  of  discovering  a  single  truth. 
Gross  personal  and  local  interests  bear  the  principal  sway  with 
the  ignorant  or  mere  man  of  the  world,  who  considers  not  what 
things  are  in  themselves,  but  what  they  are  to  him :  the  man  of 
science  attaches  a  higher  importance  to,  because  he  finds  a  more 


184  TABLE  TALK. 


constant  pleasure  in  the  contemplation  and  pursuit  of  general 
and  abstracted  truths.  Philosophy  also  teaches  self-knowledge ; 
and  self-knowledge  strikes  equally  at  the  root  of  any  inordinate 
opinion  of  ourselves,  or  wish  to  impress  others  with  idle  admira- 
tion. Mathematicians  have  been  remarked  for  persons  of  strict 
probity  and  a  conscientious  and  somewhat  literal  turn  of  mind.* 
But  are  poets  and  romance-writers  equally  scrupulous  and  severe 
judges  of  themselves,  and  martyrs  to  right  principle  ?  I  cannot 
acquit  them  of  the  charge  of  vanity,  and  a  wish  to  aggrandize 
themselves  in  the  eyes  of  the  world,  at  the  expense  of  a  little 
false  complaisance  (what  wonder  when  the  world  are  so  prone 
to  admire,  and  they  are  so  spoiled  by  indulgence  in  self-pleasing 
fancies  ?) — but  in  general  they  are  too  much  taken  up  with  their 
ideal  creations,  which  have  also  a  truth  and  keeping  of  their 
own,  to  misrepresent  or  exaggerate  matters  of  fact,  or  to  trouble 
their  heads  about  them.  The  poet's  waking  thoughts  are  dreams : 
the  liar  has  all  his  wits  and  senses  about  him,  and  thinks  only 
of  astonishing  his  hearers  by  some  worthless  assertion,  a  mixture 
of  impudence  and  cunning.  But  what  shall  we  say  of  the  clergy 
and  the  priests  of  all  countries  1  Are  they  not  men  of  learning  ? 
And  are  they  not,  with  few  exceptions,  noted  for  imposture  and 
time-serving,  much  more  than  for  a  love  of  truth  and  candour? 
They  are  good  subjects,  it  is  true ;  bound  to  keep  the  peace,  and 
hired  to  maintain  certain  opinions,  not  to  inquire  into  them.  So 
this  is  an  exception  to  the  rule,  such  as  might  be  expected.  I 
speak  of  the  natural  tendencies  of  things,  and  not  of  the-  false 
bias  that  may  be  given  to  them  by  their  forced  combination  with 
other  principles. 

The  worst  effect  of  this  depression  of  spirits,  or  of  the 
"  scholar's  melancholy,"  here  spoken  of,  is  when  it  leads  a  man, 
from  a  distrust  of  himself,  to  seek  for  low  company,  or  to  forget 
it  by  matching  below  himself.  Gray  is  to  be  pitied,  whose  exlra 
diffidence  or  fastidiousness  was  such  as  to  prevent  his  associating 
with    his    fellow-collegians,  or  mingling  with  the   herd,   till  at 

*  I  have  heard  it  said  that  carpenters,  who  do  every  thing  by  the  square  and 
line,  are  honest  men,  and  I  am  willing  to  suppose  it.  Shakespear,  in  the 
"  Midsummer  Night's  Dream,"  makes  Snug  the  Joiner  the  moral  man  of  the 
piece. 


THE  SHYNESS  OF  SCHOLARS.  185 

length,  like  the  owl,  shutting  himself  up  from  society  and  day- 
light, he  was  hunted  and  hooted  at  like  the  owl  whenever  he 
chanced  to  appear,  and  was  even  assailed  and  disturbed  in  the 
haunts  in  which  "  he  held  his  solitary  reign."  He  was  driven 
from  college  to  college,  and  subjected  to  a  persecution  the  more 
harrassing  to  a  person  of  his  indolent  and  retired  habits.  But 
he  only  shrunk  the  more  within  himself  in  consequence — read 
over  his  favourite  authors — corresponded  with  his  distant  friends 
— was  terrified  out  of  his  wits  at  the  bare  idea  of  having  his  por- 
trait prefixed  to  his  works — and  probably  died  from  nervous  agi- 
tation at  the  publicity  into  which  his  name  had  been  forced  by 
his  learning,  taste,  and  genius.  This  monastic  seclusion  and  re- 
serve is,  however,  better  than  a  career  such  as  Porson's ;  who 
from  not  liking  the  restraints,  or  not  possessing  the  exterior  re- 
commendations of  good  society,  addicted  himself  to  the  lowest 
indulgences,  spent  his  days  and  nights  in  cider-cellars  and  pot- 
houses, cared  not  with  whom  or  where  he  was,  so  that  he  had 
somebody  to  talk  to  and  something  to  drink,  "  from  humble 
porter  to  imperial  tokay"  (a  liquid,  according  to  his  own  pun,) 
and  fell  a  martyr,  in  all  likelihood,  to  what  in  the  first  instance 
was  pure  mauvaise  honte.  Nothing  could  overcome  this  pro- 
pensity to  low  society  and  sotting,  but  the  having  something  to 
do  which  required  his  whole  attention  and  faculties ;  and  then 
he  shut  himself  up  for  weeks  together  in  his  chambers,  or  at  the 
University,  to  collate  old  manuscripts,  or  edite  a  Greek  tragedy, 
or  expose  a  grave  pedant,  without  seeing  a  single  boon-compan- 
ion, or  touching  a  glass  of  wine.  1  saw  him  once  at  the  London 
Institution  with  a  large  patch  of  coarse  brown  paper  on  his  nose, 
the  skirts  of  his  rusty  black  coat  hung  with  cobwebs,  and  talking 
in  a  tone  of  suavity,  approaching  to  condescension,  to  one  of  the 
managers. 

It  is  a  pity  that  men  should  so  lose  themselves  from  a  cen*in 
awkwardness  and  rusticity  at  the  outset.  But  did  not  Sherui&n 
make  the  same  melancholy  ending,  and  run  the  same  fetal 
career,  though  in  a  higher  and  more  brilliant  circle  ?  Kc 
did ;  and  though  not  from  exactly  the  same  cause  (for  no 
cne  could  accuse  Sheridan's  purple  nose  and  flashing  e>c  of 
a    bashfulness — "  modest    as    morning    when    she    coldly    ew« 


186  TABLE  TALK. 


the  youthful  Phoebus !") — yeU  it  was  perhaps  from  one  nearly 
allied  to  it,  namely,  the  want  of  that  noble  independence 
and  confidence  in  its  own  resources  which  should  distinguish 
genius,  and  the  dangerous  ambition  to  get  sponsors  and  vouchers 
for  it  in  persons  of  rank  and  fashion.  The  affectation  of  the 
society  of  lords  is  as  mean  and  low-minded  as  the  love  of  that  of 
coblers  and  tapsters.  It  is  that  coblers  and  tapsters  may  admire, 
that  we  wish  to  be  seen  in  company  of  their  betters.  The  tone 
of  literary  patronage  is  better  than  it  was  a  hundred  or  a  hundred 
and  fifty  years  ago.  What  dramatic  author  would  think  now  of 
getting  a  lady  of  quality  to  take  a  box  at  the  first  night  of  a  play 
to  prevent  its  being  damned  by  the  pit  1  Do  we  not  read  the  ac- 
count of  Parson  Adams  taking  his  ale  in  Squire  Booby's  kitchen 
with  mingled  incredulity  and  shame  ?  At  present  literature  hast 
to  a  considerable  degree,  found  its  level,  and  is  hardly  in  danger, 
"  deprived  of  its  natural  patrons  and  protectors,  the  great  and 
noble,  of  being  trodden  in  the  mire,  and  trampled  under  the  hoofs 
of  a  swinish  multitude" — though  it  can  never  again  hope  to  be 
what  learning  once  was  in  the  persons  of  the  priesthood,  the  lord 
and  sovereign  of  principalities  and  powers.  Fool  that  it  was 
ever  to  forego  its  privileges,  and  loosen  the  strong  hold  it  had  on 
opinion  in  bigotry  and  superstition  ! 

I  remember  hearing  a  lady  of  great  sense  and  acuteness  speak 
of  it  as  a  painful  consequence  of  the  natural  shyness  of  scholars, 
that  from  the  want  of  a  certain  address,  or  an  acquaintance  with 
the  common  forms  of  society,  they  despair  of  making  themselves 
agreeable  to  women  of  education  and  a  certain  rank  in  life,  and 
throw  away  their  fine  sentiments  and  romantic  tenderness  on 
chambermaids  and  mantua-makers.  Not  daring  to  hope  for  suc- 
cess where  it  would  be  most  desirable,  yet  anxious  to  realize  in 
some  way  the  dream  of  books  and  of  their  youth,  they  are  will, 
ing  to  accept  a  return  of  affection  which  they  count  upon  as  a 
tribute  of  gratitude  in  those  of  lower  circumstances  (as  if  grati- 
tude were  ever  bought  by  interest,)  and  take  up  with  the  first 
Dulcinea  del  Toboso  that  they  meet  with,  when,  would  they  only 
try  the  experiment,  they  might  do  much  better.  Perhaps  so ; 
but  there  is  here  also  a  mixture  of  pride  as  well  as  modesty.  The 
scholar  is  not  only  apprehensive  of  not  meeting  with  a  return  of 


THE  SHYNESS  OF  SCHOLARS.  187 


fondness  where  it  might  be  most  advantageous  to  him,  but  he  is 
afraid  of  subjecting  his  self-love  to  the  mortification  of  a  repulse, 
and  to  the  reproach  of  aiming  at  a  prize  far  beyond  his  deserts. 
Besides,  living  (as  he  does)  in  an  ideal  world,  he  has  it  in  his  op- 
Xion  to  clothe  his  Goddess  (be  she  who  or  what  she  may,)  with  all 
the  perfections  his  heart  dotes  on  ;  and  he  works  up  a  dowdy  of 
this  ambiguous  description  a  son  gr£,  as  an  artist  does  a  piece  of 
dull  clay,  or  the  poet  the  sketch  of  some  unrivalled  heroine.  The 
contrast  is  also  the  greater  (and  not  the  less  gratifying  as  being 
his  own  discovery)  between  his  favourite  figure  and  the  back- 
ground of  her  original  circumstances ;  and  he  likes  her  the  bet- 
ter, inasmuch  as,  like  himself,  she  owes  all  to  her  own  merit — 
and  his  notice ! 

Possibly,  the  best  cure  for  this  false  modesty,  and  for  the  un- 
easiness and  extravagances  it  occasions,  would  be  for  the  retired 
and  abstracted  student  to  consider  that  he  properly  belongs  to 
another  sphere  of  action,  remote  from  the  scenes  of  ordinary  life, 
and  may  plead  the  excuse  of  ignorance,  and  the  privilege  granted 
to  strangers  and  to  those  who  do  not  speak  the  same  language.  If 
any  one  is  travelling  in  a  foreign  diligence,  he  is  not  expected  to 
shine  nor  to  put  himself  forward,  nor  need  he  be  out  of  counte- 
nance because  he  cannot :  he  has  only  to  conform  as  well  as  he 
can  to  his  new  and  temporary  situation,  and  to  study  common 
propriety  and  simplicity  of  manners.  Every  thing  has  its  own 
limits,  a  little  centre  of  its  own,  round  which  it  moves  ;  so  that 
our  true  wisdom  lies  in  keeping  to  our  own  walk  in  life,  how- 
ever humble  or  obscure,  and  being  satisfied  if  we  can  succeed 
in  it.  The  best  of  us  can  do  no  more,  and  we  shall  only  become 
ridiculous  or  unhappy  by  attempting  it.  We  are  ashamed,  be 
cause  we  are  at  a  loss  in  things  to  which  we  have  no  pretensions, 
and  try  to  remedy  our  mistakes  by  committing  greater.  An 
overweening  vanity  or  self-opinion  is,  in  truth,  often  at  the  bottom 
of  this  weakness  ;  and  we  shall  be  most  likely  to  conquer  the 
one  by  emdicating  the  other,  of  restricting  it  with'n  duo  and 
moderate  bounds. 

13 PART   II. 


188  TABLE  TALK- 


ESSAY  XXX. 

On  Old  English  Writers  and  Speakers. 

When  I  see  a  \vhole  row  of  standard  French  authors  piled  up  on 
a  Paris  book-stall,  to  the  height  of  twenty  or  thirty  volumes, 
showing  their  mealy  coats  to  the  sun,  pink,  blue,  and  yellow,  they 
seem  to  me  a  wall  built  up  to  keep  out  the  intrusion  of  foreign 
letters.  There  is  scarcely  such  a  thing  as  an  English  book  to  be 
met  with,  unless,  perhaps,  a  dusty  edition  of  Clarissa  Harlowe 
lurks  in  an  ohscure  corner,  or  a  volume  of  the  Sentimental  Jour- 
ney perks  its  well-known  title  in  your  face.*  But  there  is  a  huge 
column  of  Voltaire's  works  complete  in  sixty  volumes,  another 
(not  so  frequent)  of  Rousseau's  in  fifty,  Racine  in  ten  volumes, 
Moliere  in  about  the  same  number,  La  Fontaine,  Marmontel,  Gil 
Bias,  for  ever  ;  Madame  Sevigne's  Letters,  Pascal,  Montesquieu, 
Crebillon,  Marivaux,  with  Montaigne,  Rabelais,  and  the  grand 
Corneille  more  rare ;  and  eighteen  full-sized  volumes  of  La 
Harpe's  criticism,  towering  vain-gloriously  in  the  midst  of  them, 
furnishing  the  streets  of  Paris  with  a  graduated  scale  of  merit 
for  all  the  rest,  and  teaching  the  very  garcons  perruquiers  how  to 
measure  the  length  of  each  act  of  each  play  by  a  stop-watch, 
and  to  ascertain  whether  the  angles  at  the  four  corners  of  each 
classic  volume  are  right  ones.  How  climb  over  this  lofty  pile 
of  taste  and  elegance  to  wander  down  into  the  bogs  and  wastes 
of  English  or  of  any  other  literature,  "  to  this  obscure  and  wild  ?" 
Must  they  "on  that  fair  mountain  leave  to  feed,  to  batten  on  this 
moor  ?"  Or  why  should  they  ?  Have  they  not  literature 
enough  of  their  own,  and  to  spare,  without  coming  to  us  ?     Is 

•  A  splendid  edition  of  Goldsmith  has  been  lately  got  up  under  the  super- 
intendence of  Mr.  Washington  Irving,  with  a  preface  and  a  portrait  of  each 
author.  By  what  concatenation  of  ideas  that  gentleman  arrived  at  the  neces- 
sity of  placing  his  own  portrait  before  a  collection  of  Goldsmith's  works,  one 
must  have  been  early  imprisoned  in  transatlantic  solitudes  to  understand. 


ON  OLD  ENGLISH  WRITERS  AND  SPEAKERS.         189 

not  the  public  mind  crammed,  choaked  with  French  books,  pic- 
tures, statues,  plays,  operas,  newspapers,  parties,  and  an  inces- 
sant farrago  of  words,  so  that  it  has  not  a  moment  left  to  look  at 
home  into  itself,  01  abroad  into  nature  ?  Must  they  cross  the 
Channel  to  increase  the  vast  stock  of  impertinence,  to  acquire 
foreign  tastes,  suppress  native  prejudices,  and  reconcile  the  opin- 
ions of  the  Edinburgh  and  Quarterly  Reviews  ?  It  is  quite  need- 
less. There  is  a  project  at  present  entertained  in  certain  cir- 
cles, to  give  the  French  a  taste  for  Shakespear.  They  should 
really  begin  with  the  English.*  Many  of  their  own  best  authors 
are  neglected  ;  others,  of  whom  new  editions  have  been  printed, 
lie  heavy  on  the  booksellers'  hands.  It  is  by  an  especial  dispen- 
sation of  Providence  that  languages  wear  out ;  as  otherwise  we 
should  be  buried  alive  under  a  load  of  books  and  knowledge. 
People  talk  of  a  philosophical  and  universal  language.  We 
have  enough  to  do  to  understand  our  own,  and  to  read  a  thou- 
sandth part  (perhaps  not  the  best)  of  what  is  written  in  it.  It  is 
ridiculous  and  monstrous  vanity.  We  would  set  up  a  standard 
of  general  taste  and  of  immortal  renown  ;  we  would  have  the 
benefits  of  science  and  of  art  universal,  because  we  suppose  our 
own  capacity  to  receive  them  unbounded  ;  and  we  would  have 
the  thoughts  of  others  never  die,  because  we  flatter  ourselves  that 
our  own  will  last  for  ever ;  and  like  the  frog  imitating  the  ox  in 
the  fable,  we  burst  in  the  vain  attempt.  Man,  whatever  he  may 
think,  is  a  very  limited  being;  the  world  is  a  narrow  circle 
drawn  about  him ;  the  horizon  limits  our  immediate  view;  im- 
mortality means  a  century  or  two.  Languages  happily  restrict 
the  mind  to  what  is  of  its  own  native  growth  and  fitted  for  it,  as 
rivers  and  mountains  bound  countries  ;  or  the  empire  of  learn- 
ing, as  well  as  states,  would  become  unwieldly  and  overgrown. 

*  I  would  as  soon  try  to  remove  one  side  of  the  Seine  or  of  the  Thames  tc 
the  other.  By  the  time  an  author  begins  to  be  much  talked  of  abroad,  he  is 
going  out  of  fashion  at  home.  We  have  many  little  Lord  Byrons  among  our- 
selves, who  think  they  can  write  nearly,  if  not  quite  as  well.  I  am  not  anx- 
ious to  spread  Shakespear's  fame,  or  to  increase  the  number  of  his  admirers. 
"  What's  lie  that  wishes  for  more  men  from  England  1"  &c.  It  is  enough  if 
he  is  admired  by  all  those  who  understand  him.  He  may  be  very  inferior  to 
many  French  writers,  for  what  I  know;  but  I  am  quite  sure  he  is  superior 
to  all  English  ones.  We  may  say  that,  without  natiomd  prejudice  or  vanity 
17 


190  TABLE  TALK. 


A  little  importation  from  foreign  markets  may  be  gc  od ;  but  the 
home  production  is  the  chief  thing  to  be  looked  to. 

"  The  proper  study  of  the  French  is  French  f 

No  people  can  act  more  uniformly  upon  a  conviction  of  this  max- 
im, and  in  that  respect  I  think  they  are  much  to  be  commended. 
Mr.  Lamb  has  lately  taken  it  into  his  head  to  read  St.  Evre- 
mont,  and  works  of  that,  stamp.  I  neither  praise  nor  blame  him 
for  it.  He  observed,  that  St.  Evremont  was  a  writer  half-way 
between  Montaigne  and  Voltaire,  with  a  spice  of  the  wit  of  the 
one  and  the  sense  of  the  other.  I  said  I  was  always  of  opinion 
that  there  had  been  a  great  many  clever  people  in  the  world, 
both  in  France  and  England,  but  I  had  been  sometimes  rebuked 
for  it.  Lamb  took  this  as  a  slight  reproach  ;  for  he  has  been  a 
little  exclusive  and  national  in  his  tastes.  He  said  that  Coleridge 
had  lately  given  up  all  his  opinions  respecting  German  litera- 
ture, that  all  their  high-flown  pretensions  were  in  his  present  es- 
timate sheer  cant  and  affectation,  and  that  none  of  their  works 
were  worth  any  thing  but  Schiller's  and  the  early  ones  of  Go- 
ethe. "  What,"  I  said,  "  my  old  friend  Werter  !  How  many 
battles  have  I  had  in  my  own  mind,  and  compunctious  visitings 
of  criticism  to  stick  to  my  old  favourite,  because  Coleridge 
thought  nothing  of  it !  It  is  hard  to  find  one's-self  right  at  last!" 
I  found  they  were  of  my  mind  with  respect  to  the  celebrated 
Faust — that,  it  is  a  mere  piece  of  abortive  perverseness,  a  wilful 
evasion  of  the  subject  and  omission  of  the  characters ;  that  it  is 
written  on  the  absurd  principle  that  as  to  produce  a  popular  and 
powerful  effect  is  not  a  proof  of  the  highest  genius,  so  to  produce 
no  effect  at  all  is  an  evidence  of  the  highest  poetry — and  in  fine, 
that  the  German  play  is  not  to  be  named  in  a  day  with  Mar- 
lowe's. Poor  Kit!  How  Lord  Byron  would  have  sneered  at 
this  comparison  between  the  boasted  modern  and  a  contempo- 
rary of  Shakespear's  !  Captain  Medwin  or  his  Lordship  must 
have  made  a  mistake  in  the  enumeration  of  plays  of  that  period 
still  acted.  There  is  one  of  Ben  Jonson's,  "  Every  Man  in  his 
Humour;"  and  one  of  Massinger's,  "  A  New  Way  to  Pay  Old 
Leuts  ;"  but  there  is  none  of  Ford's  either  acted  or  worth  act- 
ing, except "  'Tis  Pity  She's  a  Whore,"  and  that  would  no  more 


ON  OLD  ENGLISH  WRITERS  AND  SPEAKERS.         191 

bear  acting  than  Lord  Byron  and  Goethe  together  could  have 
vritten  it. 

This  account  of  Coleridge's  vacillations  of  opinion  on  such  sub- 
jects might  be  adduced  .o  show  that  our  love  for  foreign  literature 
:'s  an  acquired  or  rather  an  assumed  taste ;  that  it  is,  like  a 
foreign  religion,  adopted  for  the  moment,  to  answer  a  purpose  or 
to  please  an  idle  humour  ;  that  we  do  not  enter  into  the  dialect 
of  truth  and  nature  in  their  works  as  we  do  in  our  own  ;  and  that 
consequently  our  taste  for  them  seldom  becomes  a  part  of  our- 
selves, that  "  grows  with  our  growth,  and  strengthens  with  our 
strength,"  and  only  quits  us  when  we  die.  Probably  it  is  this 
acquaintance  with,  and  pretended  admiration  of,  extraneous 
models,  that  adulterates  and  spoils  our  native  literature,  that 
polishes  the  surface  but  undermines  its  basis,  and  by  taking  away 
its  original  simplicity,  character,  and  force,  makes  it  just  tolerable 
to  others,  and  a  matter  of  much  indifference  to  ourselves.  When 
I  see  Lord  Byron's  poems  stuck  all  over  Paris,  it  strikes  me  as 
ominous  of  the  decline  of  English  genius :  on  the  contrary, 
when  I  find  the  Scotch  novels  in  still  greater  request,  I  think  it 
augurs  well  for  the  improvement  of  French  taste.* 

There  was  advertised  not  long  ago  in  Paris  an  Elegy  on  the 
Death  of  Lord  Byron,  by  his  friend  Sir  Thomas  More, — evidently 
confounding  the  living  bard  with  the  old  statesman.  It  is  thus 
the  French  in  their  light,  salient  way  transpose  every  thing.  The 
mistake  is  particularly  ludicrous  to  those  who  have  ever  seen 

*  I  have  heard  the  popularity  of  Sir  Walter  Scott  in  France  ingeniously  and 
bomewhat  whimsically  traced  to  Bonaparte.  He  did  not  like  the  dissipation 
and  frivolity  of  Paris,  and  relegated  the  country-gentlemen  to  their  seats  foi 
eight  months  in  the  year.  Here  they  yawn  and  gasp  for  breath,  and  would  not 
know  what  to  do  without  the  aid  of  the  author  of  Waverley.  They  ask  impa- 
tiently when  the  "  Tales  of  the  Crusaders"  will  be  out;  and  what  you  think 
of  "  Red-Gauntlet  V  To  the  same  cause  is  to  be  attributed  the  change  of 
manners.  Messieurs,  je  veux  des  mmiirs,  was  constantly  in  the  French  Ruler's 
mouth.  Manners,  according  to  my  informant,  were  necessary  to  consolidate 
his  plans  of  tyranny; — how,  I  do  not  know.  Forty  years  ago  no  man  was 
ever  seen  in  company  with  Maihime  sa  femme.  A  comedy  was  written  or. 
the  ridicule  of  a  man  being  in  love  with  his  wife.  Now  he  must  be  with  her 
three-and-twenty  hours  out  of  the  four-and-twenty ;  it  is  from  this  that  they 
date  the  decline  of  happiness  in  Fraice;  and  the  unfortunate  couple  endeavour 
to  pass  the  time  and  get  rid  of  ennu   as  well  as  they  can,  by  reading  the  Scotch 

novels  together. 

17 


192  TABLE  TALK. 


Mr.  Moore,  or  Mr.  Shee's  portrait  of  him  in  Mr.  Hookham's  shop, 
and  who  chance  to  see  Holbein's  head  of  Sir  Thomas  More  in 
the  Louvre.  There  is  the  same  difference  that  there  is  between 
a  surly  English  mastiff  and  a  little  lively  French  pug.  Mr. 
Moore's  face  is  gay  and  smiling  enough,  old  Sir  Thomas's  is  se- 
vere, not  to  say  sour.  It  seems  twisted  awry  with  difficult  ques- 
tions, and  bursting  asunder  with  a  ponderous  load  of  meaning. 
Mr.  Moore  has  nothing  of  this  painful  and  puritanical  cast.  He 
floats  idly  and  fantastically  on  the  top  of  the  literature  of  his  age  ; 
his  renowned  and  almost  forgotten  namesake  has  nearly  sunk  to 
the  bottom  of  his.  The  author  of  Utopia  was  no  flincher,  he  was 
a  martyr  to  his  opinions,  and  was  burnt  to  death  for  them — the 
most  heroic  action  of  Mr.  Moore's  life  is,  the  having  burnt  the 
Memoirs  of  his  friend  ! 

The  expression  in  Holbein's  pictures  conveys  a  faithful  but 
not  very  favourable  notion  of  the  literary  character  of  that  pe- 
riod. It  is  painful,  dry,  and  laboured.  Learning  was  then  an 
ascetic,  but  recluse  and  profound.  You  see  a  weight  of  thought 
and  care  in  the  studious  heads  of  the  time  of  the  Reformation, 
a  sincerity,  an  integrity,  a  sanctity  of  purpose,  like  that  of  a 
formal  dedication  to  a  religious  life,  or  the  inviolability  of  mon- 
astic vows.  They  had  their  work  to  do ;  we  reap  the  benefits 
of  it.  We  skim  the  surface,  and  travel  along  the  high  road. 
They  had  to  explore  dark  recesses,  to  dig  through  mountains, 
and  make  their  way  through  pathless  wildernesses.  It  is  no 
wonder  they  looked  grave  upon  it.  The  seriousness,  indeed, 
amounts  to  an  air  of  devotion ;  and  it  has  to  me  something  fine, 
manly,  and  old  English  about  it.  There  is  a  heartiness  and  de- 
termined resolution  ;  a  willingness  to  contend  with  opposition  ;  a 
superiority  to  ease  and  pleasure ;  some  sullen  pride,  but  no 
trifling  vanity.  They  addressed  themselves  to  study  as  to  a 
duty,  and  were  ready  to  "  leave  all  and  follow  it."  In  the  be- 
ginning of  such  an  era,  the  difference  between  ignorance  and 
learning,  between  what  was  commonly  known  and  what  was 
possible  to  be  known,  would  appear  immense ;  and  no  pains  or 
time  would  be  thought  too  great  to  master  the  difficulty.  Con- 
scious of  their  own  deficiencies  and  the  scanty  information  of 
those  about  them,  they  would  be  glad  to  look  out  for  aids  and 
support,  and  to  put  themselves  apprentices  to  time  and  nature. 


ON  OLD  ENGLISH  WRITERS  AND  SPEAKERS       ^  193 

This  temper  would  lead  them  to  exaggerate  rather  than  to  make 
iight  a*"  the  difficulties  of  their  undertaking;  and  would  call 
forth  sacrifices  in  proportion.  Feeling  how  little  they  knew, 
they  would  be  anxious  to  discover  all  that  others  had  known,  and 
instead  of  making  a  display  of  themselves,  their  first  object 
would  be  to  dispel  the  mist  and  darkness  that  surrounded  them. 
They  did  not  cull  the  flowers  of  learning,  or  pluck  a  leaf  of 
laurel  for  their  own  heads,  but  tugged  at  the  roots  and  very 
heart  of  their  subject,  as  the  woodman  tugs  at  the  roots  of  the 
gnarled  oak.  The  sense  of  the  arduousness  of  their  enterprize 
braced  their  courage,  so  that  they  left  nothing  half  done.  They 
inquired  de  omne  scibile  et  quibusdam  aliis.  They  ransacked 
libraries,  they  exhausted  authorities.  They  acquired  languages, 
consulted  books,  and  decyphered  manuscripts.  They  devoured 
learning,  and  swallowed  antiquity  whole,  and  (what  is  more)  di- 
gested it.  They  read  incessantly,  and  remembered  what  they 
read,  from  the  zealous  interest  they  took  in  it.  Repletion  is  only 
bad,  when  it  is  accompanied  with  apathy  and  want  of  exercise. 
They  laboured  hard,  and  showed  great  activity  both  of  reason- 
ing and  speculation.  Their  fault  was  that  they  were  too  prone 
to  unlock  the  secrets  of  nature  with  the  key  of  learning,  and 
often  to  substitute  authority  in  the  place  of  argument.  They 
were  also  too  polemical ;  as  was  but  naturally  to  be  expected  in 
the  first  breaking  up  of  established  prejudices  and  opinions.  It 
is  curious  to  observe  the  slow  progress  of  the  human  mind  in 
loosening  and  getting  rid  of  its  trammels,  link  by  link,  and  how 
it  crept  on  its  hands  and  feet,  and  with  its  eyes  bent  on  the 
ground,  out  of  the  cave  of  Bigotry,  making  its  way  through  one 
dark  passage  after  another ;  those  who  gave  up  one  half  of  an 
absurdity  contending  as  strenuously  for  the  remaining  half,  the 
lazy  current  of  tradition  stemming  the  tide  of  innovation,  and 
making  an  endless  struggle  between  the  two.  But  in  the  dullest 
minds  of.  this  period  there  was  a  deference  to  the  opinions  of 
their  leaders ;  an  imposing  sense  of  the  importance  of  the  sub- 
ject, of  the  necessity  of  bringing  all  the  faculties  to  bear  upon 
it ;  a  weight  either  of  armour  or  of  internal  strength,  a  zeal 
either  for  or  against ;  a  head,  a  heart,  and  a  hand,  a  holding  out 
to  the  death  for  conscience  sake,  a  strong  spirit  of  proselytism — 
no  flippancy,  no  indifference,  no  compromising,  no  pert  shallow 


194  TABLE  TALK. 


scepticism,  but  truth  was  supposed  indissolubly  knit  to  good, 
knowledge  to  usefulness,  and  the  temporal  and  eternal  welfare 
of  mankind  to  hang  in  the  balance.  The  pure  springs  of  a  lofty 
faith  (so  to  speak)  had  not  then  descended  by  various  gradations 
from  their  skyey  regions  and  cloudy  height,  to  find  their  level  in 
the  smooth,  glittering  expanse  of  modern  philosophy,  or  to  settle 
in  the  stagnant  pool  of  stale  hypocrisy  !  A  learned  man  of  that 
day,  if  he  knew  no  better  than  others,  at  least  knew  all  that 
they  did.  He  did  not  come  to  his  subject,  like  some  dapper  bar- 
rister who  has  never  looked  at  his  brief,  and  trusts  to  the  smart- 
ness of  his  wit  and  person  for  the  agreeable  effect  he  means  to 
produce,  but  like  an  old  and  practised  counsellor,  covered  over 
with  the  dust  and  cobwebs  of  the  law.  If  it  was  a  speaker  in 
Parliament,  he  came  prepared  to  handle  his  subject,  armed  with 
cases  and  precedents,  the  constitution  and  history  of  Parliament 
from  the  earliest  period,  a  knowledge  of  the  details  of  business 
and  the  local  interests  of  the  country ;  in  short,  he  had  taken  up 
the  freedom  of  the  House,  and  did  not  treat  the  question  like  a 
cosmopolite,  or  a  writer  in  a  Magazine.  If  it  were  a  divine,  he 
knew  the  Scriptures  and  the  Fathers,  and  the  Councils  and  the 
Commentators  by  heart,  and  thundered  them  in  the  ears  of  his 
astonished  audience.  Not  a  trim  essay  or  a  tumid  oration,  pat- 
ronizing religion  by  modern  sophisms,  but  the  Law  and  the 
Prophets,  the  chapter  and  the  verse.  If  it  was  a  philosopher, 
Aristotle  and  the  Schoolmen  were  drawn  out  in  battle-array 
against  you  : — if  an  antiquarian,  the  Lord  bless  us !  There  is  a 
passage  in  Selden's  notes  on  Drayton's  Poly-Olbion,  in  which  he 
elucidates  some  point  of  topography  by  a  reference  not  only  to 
Stowe  and  Holinshed  and  Camden  and  Saxo-Grammaticus  and 
Dugdale  and  several  other  authors  that  we  are  acquainted  with, 
but  to  twenty  obscure  names,  that  no  modern  reader  ever  heard 
of:  and  so  on  through  the  notes  to  a  folio  volume,  written  appa- 
rently for  relaxation.  Such  were  the  intellectual  amusements 
of  our  ancestors !  Learning  then  ordinarily  lay-in  of  folio 
volumes  :  now  she  litters  octavos  and  duodecimos,  and  will  soon, 
as  in  France,  miscarry  of  half-sheets !  Poor  Job  Orton !  why 
should  1  not  record  a  jest  of  his  (perhaps  the  only  one  he  ever 
made,)  emblematic  as  it  is  of  the  living  and  the  learning  of  the 
good  old  times  ?     The  Rev.  Job  Orton  was  a  Dissenting  Minis- 


ON  OLD  ENGLISH  WRITERS  AND  SPEAKERS.  195 

tet  m  the  middle  of  the  last  century,  and  had  grown  heavy  and 
gouty  by  sitting  long  at  dinner  and  at  his  studies.  He  could 
only  get  down-stairs  at  last  by  spreading  the  folio  volumes  of 
Caryl's  Commentaries  upon  Job  on  the  steps  and  sliding  down 
them.  Surprised  one  day  in  his  descent,  he  exclaimed,  "  You 
have  often  heard  of  Caryl  upon  Job — now  you  see  Job  upon 
Cary  !"  This  same  quaint- witted  gouty  old  gentleman  seems 
to  have  been  one  of  those  "  superior,  happy  spirits,"  who  elid 
through  life  on  the  rollers  of  learning,  enjoying  the  good  things 
of  the  world  and  laughing  at  them,  and  turning  his  infirmities  to 
a  livelier  account  than  his  patriarchal  name-sake.  Reader, 
didst  thou  ever  hear  either  of  Job  Orton  or  of  Caryl  on  Job  ? 
I  dare  say  not.  Yet  the  one  did  not  therefore  slide  down  his 
theological  staircase  the  less  pleasantly  ;  nor  did  the  other  com- 
pile his  Commentaries  in  vain!  For  myself,  I  should  like  to 
browze  on  folios,  and  have  to  deal  chiefly  with  authors  that  I 
have  scarcely  strength  to  lift,  that  are  as  solid  as  they  are  heavy, 
and  if  dull,  are  full  of  matter.  It  is  delightful  to  repose  on  the 
wisdom  of  the  ancients;* to  have  some  great  name  at  hand,  be- 
sides one's  own  initials  always  staring  one  in  the  face :  to  travel 
out  of  one's-self  into  the  Chaldee,  Hebrew,  and  Egyptian  char- 
acters; to  have  the  palm-trees  waving  mystically  in  the  margin 
of  the  page,  and  the  camels  moving  slowly  on  in  the  distance  of 
three  thousand  years.  In  that  dry  desert  of  learning,  we  gather 
strength  and  patience,  and  a  strange  and  insatiable  thirst  of 
knowledge.  The  ruined  monuments  of  antiquity  are  also  there, 
and  the  fragments  of  buried  cities  (under  which  the  adder  lurks,) 
and  cool  springs,  and  green  sunny  spots,  and  the  whirlwind  and 
the  lion's  roar,  and  the  shadow  of  angelic  wings.  To  those 
who  turn  with  supercilious  disgust  from  the  ponderous  tomes  of 
scholastic  learning,  who  never  felt  the  witchery  of  the  Talmuds 
and  the  Cabbala,  of  the  Commentators  and  the  Schoolmen;  of 
texts  and  authorities,  of  types  and  anti-types,  hieroglyphics  and 
mysteries,  dogmas  and  contradictions,  and  endless  controversies 
and  doubtful  labyrinths,  and  quaint  traditions,  I  would  recom- 
mend the  lines  of  Warton  written  in  a  blank  leaf  of  Dugdale's 
Monasticon : 

"  Deem  not  devoid  of  elegance  the  sage, 
By  fancy's  genuine  feelings  unbeguiled, 


!96  TABLE  TALK. 


Of  painful  pedantry  the  poring  child, 
Who  turns  of  these  proud  domes  the  historic  page, 
Now  sunk  by  time  and  Henry's  fiercer  rage. 
Think'st  thou  the  warbling  Muses  never  smiled 
On  his  lone  hours  1     Ingenuous  views  engage 
His  thoughts,  on  themes  (unclassic  falsely  styled) 
Intent.     While  cloister'd  piety  displays 
Her  mouldering  scroll,  the  piercing  eye  explores 
New  manners  and  the  pomp  of  elder  days  ; 
Whence  culls  the  pensive  bard  his  pictured  stores. 
Nor  rough  nor  barren  are  the  winding  ways 
Of  hoar  Antiquity,  but  strewn  with  flowers." 

This  sonnet,  if  it  were  not  for  a  certain  intricacy  in  the  sty'ie 
would  be  a  perfect  one :  at  any  rate,  the  thought  it  contains  is 
fine  and  just.  Some  of  the  caput  mortuum  of  learning  is  a  useful 
ballast  and  relief  to  the  mind.  It  must  turn  back  to  the  acquisi- 
tions of  others  as  its  natural  sustenance  and  support ;  facts  must 
go  hand  in  hand  with  feelings,  or  it  will  soon  prey  like  an  empty 
stomach  on  itself,  or  be  the  sport  of  the  windy  impertinence  of 
ingenuity  self-begotten.  Away  then  with  this  idle  cant,  as  if 
every  thing  were  barbarous  and  without  interest,  that  is  not  the 
growth  of  our  own  times  and  of  our  own  taste  ;  with  this  ever- 
lasting evaporation  of  mere  sentiment,  this  affected  glitter  of 
style,  this  equivocal  generation  of  thought  out  of  ignorance  and 
vanity,  this  total  forgetfulness  of  the  subject,  and  display  of  the 
writer,  as  if  every  possible  train  of  speculation  must  originate 
in  the  pronoun  7,  and  the  world  had  nothing  to  do  but  to 
look  on  and  admire.  It  will  not  do  to  consider  all  truth  or 
good  as  a  reflection  of  our  own  pampered  and  inordinate 
self-love :  to  resolve  the  solid  fabric  of  the  universe  into  an 
essence  of  Della-Cruscan  witticism  and  conceit.  The  perpetual 
search  after  effect,  the  premature  and  effeminate  indulgence  of 
nervous  sensibility,  defeats  and  wears  itself  out.  We  cannot 
make  an  abstraction  of  the  intellectual  ore  from  the  material 
dross,  of  feelings  from  objects,  of  results  from  causes.  We  must 
get  at  the  kernel  of  pleasure  through  the  dry  and  hard  husk  of 
truth.  We  must  wait  nature's  time.  These  false  births  weaken 
the  constitution.  It  has  been  observed  that  men  of  science  live 
longer  than  mere  men  of  letters.  They  exercise  their  under- 
standings more,  their  sensibility  less.  There  is  with  them  less 
wear  and  tear  of  the  irritable  fibre,  which  is  not  shattered  and 


ON  OLD  ENGLISH  WRITERS  AND  SPEAKERS.        197 

worn  to  a  very  thread.  On  the  hill  of  science,  they  keep  an 
eye  intent  on  truth  and  fame  : 

"  Calm  pleasures  there  abide,  majestic  pains." — 

while  the  man  of  letters  mingles  in  the  crowd  below,  courting 
popularity  and  pleasure.  His  is  a  frail  and  feverish  existence 
accordingly,  and  he  soon  exhausts  himself  in  the  tormenting  pur- 
suit— in  the  alternate  excitement  of  his  imagination  and  gratifi- 
cation of  his  vanity. 

"  Earth  destroys 


Those  raptures  duly:  Erebus  disdains  !" 

Lord  Byron  appears  to  me  to  have  fairly  run  himself  out  in 
nis  debilitating  intercourse  with  the  wanton  Muse.  He  had  no 
other  idea  left  but  that  of  himself  and  the  public — he  was  un 
easy  unless  he  was  occupied  in  administering  repeated  provoca- 
tives to  idle  curiosity,  and  receiving  strong  doses  of  praise  or 
censure  in  return :  the  irritation  at  last  became  so  violent  and 
importunate,  that  he  could  neither  keep  on  with  it  nor  take  any 
repose  from  it.     The  glittering  orb  of  heated  popularity 

"  Glared  round  his  soul  and  mocked  his  closing  eye-lids." 

The  successive  endless  cantos  of  Don  Juan  were  the  quotidian 
that  killed  him  ! — Old  Sir  Walter  will  last  long  enough,  stuffing 
his  wallet  and  his  "  wame,"  as  he  does,  with  mouldy  fragments 
and  crumbs  of  comfort.  He  does  not  "  spin  his  brains,"  but 
something  much  better.  The  cunning  chieM,  the  old  canty gaber- 
lunzie  has  got  hold  of  another  clue — that  of  nature  and  history — 
and  long  may  he  spin  it,  "  even  to  the  crack  of  doom,"  watching 
the  threads  as  they  are  about  to  break  through  his  fringed  eye- 
lids, catching  a  tradition  in  his  mouth  like  a  trap,  and  heaping  his 
forehead  with  facts,  till  it  shoves  up  the  Baronet's  blue  bonnet 
into  a  Baron's  crown,  and  then  will  the  old  boy  turn  in  his  chair, 
rest  his  chin  upon  his  crutch,  give  a  last  look  to  the  Highlands, 
and  with  his  latest  breath,  thank  God  that  he  leaves  the  world  as 
he  found  it !  And  so  he  will  pretty  nearly  with  one  exception, 
the  Scotch  Novels.  They  are  a  small  addition  to  this  round 
world  of  ours.     We  and  they  shall  jog  on  merrily  together  for  a 


198  TABLE  TALK. 


century  or  two,  I  hope,  till  some  future  Lord  Byron  asks,  "  Who 
reads  Sir  Walter  Scott  now  ?*'  Theie  is  the  last  and  almost 
worst  of  them.  I  would  take  it  with  me  into  a  wilderness.  Three 
pages  of  poor  Peter  Peebles  will  at  any  time  redeem  three 
volumes  of  Red- Gauntlet.  And  Nanty  Ewart  is  even  better  with 
his  steady  walk  upon  the  dock  of  the  Jumping  Jenny  and  his 
story  of  himself,  "  and  her  whose  foot  (whether  he  came  in  or 
went  out)  was  never  off  the  stair."  There  you  came  near  me, 
there  you  touched  me,  old  true-penny !  And  then  again  the 
catch  that  blind  Willie  and  his  wife  and  the  boy  sing  in  the  hol- 
low of  the  heath — there  is  more  mirth  and  heart's  ease  in  it  than 
in  all  Lord  Byron's  Don  Juan,  or  Mr.  Moore's  Lyrics.  And 
why  ?  Because  the  author  is  thinking  of  beggars  and  a  beggar's 
brat,  and  not  of  himself,  while  he  writes  it.  He  looks  at  nature,  sees 
it,  hears  it,  feels  it,  and  believes  that  it  exists,  before  it  is  printed, 
hot-pressed  and  labelled  on  the  back,  By  the  Author  of  Waverley. 
He  does  not  fancy,  nor  would  he  for  one  moment  have  it  supposed, 
that  his  name  and  fame  compose  all  that  is  worth  a  moment's 
consideration  in  the  universe.  This  is  the  great  secret  of  his 
writings — a  perfect  indifference  to  self.  Whether  it  is  the  same 
in  his  politics,  I  cannot  say.  I  see  no  comparison  between  his 
prose-writing  and  Lord  Byron's  poems.  The  only  writer  that  I 
should  hesitate  about  is  Wordsworth.  There  are  thoughts  and 
lines  of  his  that  to  me  show  as  fine  a  mind,  a  subtler  sense  of  beauty 
than  any  thing  of  Sir  Walter's,  such  as  those  above  quoted,  and 
that  other  line  in  the  Laodamia — 

"  Elysian  beauty,  melancholy  grace." 

I  would  as  soon  have  written  that  line  as  have  carved  a  Greek 
statue.  But  in  this  opinion  I  shall  have  three  or  four  with  me, 
and  all  the  rest  of  the  world  against  me.  I  do  not  dislike  a 
Flouse-of-Commons  Minority  in  matters  of  taste — that  is,  one 
that  is  select,  independent,  and  has  a  proxy  from  posterity. — To 
roturn  to  the  question  with  which  I  set  out. 

Learning  is  its  own  exceeding  great  reward ;  and  at  the  pe- 
riod of  which  we  speak,  it  bore  other  fruits,  not  unworthy  of  it. 
Genius,  when  not  smothered  and  kept  down  by  learning,  blazed 
out  triumphantly  over  it ;  and  the  Fancy  often  rose  to  a  height 
proportioned  to  the  depth  to  which  the  Understanding  had  struck 


ON  OLD  ENGLISH  WRITERS  AND  SPEAKERS.  199 

its  roots.  After  the  first  emancipation  of  the  mind  from  the 
trammels  of  Papal  ignorance  and  superstition,  people  seemed  to 
be  in  a  state  of  breathless  wonder  at  the  new  light  that  was  suf- 
fered to  break  in  upon  them.  They  were  startled  as  "  at  the 
birth  of  nature  from  the  unapparent  deep."  They  seized  on  all 
objects  that  rose  in  view  with  a  firm  and  eager  grasp,  in  order  to 
be  sure  whether  they  were  imposed  upon  or  not.  The  mind  of 
man,  "  pawing  to  get  free"  from  custom  and  prejudice,  struggled 
and  plunged,  and  like  the  fabled  Pegasus,  opened  at  each  spring 
a  new  source  of  truth.  Images  were  piled  on  heaps,  as  well  as 
opinions  and  facts,  the  ample  materials  for  poetry  or  prose,  to 
which  the  bold  hand  of  enthusiasm  applied  its  torch,  and  kindled 
it  into  a  flame.  The  accumulation  of  past  records  seemed  to 
form  the  frame-work  of  their  prose,  as  the  observation  of  exter- 
nal objects  did  of  their  poetry — 

"  Whose  body  nature  was,  and  man  the  soul." 

Among  poets  they  have  to  boast  such  names,  for  instance,  as 
Shakespear,  Spenser,  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  Marlowe,  Web- 
ster, Deckar,  and  soon  after,  Milton ;  among  prose- writers,  Sel- 
den,  Bacon,  Jeremy  Taylor,  Baxter,  and  Sir  Thomas  Brown ; 
for  patriots,  they  have  such  men  as  Pym,  Hampden,  Sydney  ; 
and  for  a  witness  of  their  zeal  and  piety,  they  have  Fox's  Book 
of  Martyrs,  instead  of  which  we  have  Mr.  Southey's  Book  of  the 
Church,  and  a  whole  host  of  renegades  !  Perhaps  Jeremy 
Taylor  and  also  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  may  be  mentioned  as 
rather  -exceptions  to  the  gravity  and  severity  I  have  spoken  of  as 
characteristic  of  our  earlier  literature.  It  is  true,  they  are  florid 
and  voluptuous  in  their  style,  but  they  still  keep  their  state  apart, 
and  there  is  an  eloquence  of  the  heart  about  them,  which  seems 
to  gush  from  the  "  pure  well  of  English  undefiled."  The  one 
treats  of  sacred  things  with  a  vividness  and  fervour  as  if  he  had 
a  revelation  of  them  :  the  others  speak  of  human  interests  with 
a  tenderness  as  if  man's  nature  were  divine.  Jeremy  Taylnr'a 
pen  seems  to  have  been  guided  by  the  very  spirit  of  joy  and 
youth,  but  yet  with  a  sense  of  what  was  due  to  the  reverence  of 
age,  and  "  tears  of  pious  awe,  that  feared  to  have  offended.'* 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher's  love-scenes  are  like  the  meeting  of 
heaits  in  Elysium.     Let  any  one  have  dwelt  on  any  object  with 


200  .  -  TABLE  TALK. 


the  greatest  fondness,  let  hirn  have  cherished  the  feeling  to  the 
utmost  height,  and  have  it  put  to  the  test  in  the  most  trying  cir 
cumstances,  and  he  will  find  it  described  to  the  life  in  Beaumon. 
and  Fletcher.  Our  modern- dramatists  (with  one  exception,*) 
appeal  not  to  nature  or  the  heart,  but — to  the  readers  of  modern 
poetry.  Words  and  paper,  each  couleur  de  rose,  are  the  two  re- 
quisites  of  a  fashionable  style.  But  the  glossy  splendour,  the 
voluptuous  glow  of  the  obsolete,  old-fashioned  writers  just  men- 
tioned has  nothing  artificial,  nothing  meretricious  in  it.  It  is  the 
luxuriance  of  natural  feeling  and  fancy.  I  should  as  soon  think 
of  accusing  the  summer-rose  of  vanity  for  unfolding  its  leaves  tc 
the  dawn,  or  the  hawthorn  that  puts  forth  its  blossoms  in  the  ge- 
nial warmth  of  spring,  of  affecting  to  be  fine.  We  have  heard  a 
good  deal  of  the  pulpit-eloquence  of  Bossuet  and  other  celebrated 
preachers  of  the  time  of  Fenelon ;  but  I  doubt  much  whether  all 
of  them  together  could  produce  any  number  of  passages  to  match 
the  best  of  those  in  the  Holy  Living  and  Dying,  or  even  Baxter's 
severe  or  thrilling  denunciations  of  the  insignificance  and  nothing- 
ness of  life  and  the  certainty  of  a  judgment  to  come.  There  is 
a  fine  portrait  of  this  last-named  controversialist,  with  his  high 
forehead  and  black  velvet  cap,  in  Calamy's  Non-Conformist's 
Memorial,  containing  an  account  of  the  Two  Thousand  Ejected 
Ministers  at  the  Restoration  of  Charles  II.  This  was  a  proud 
list  for  Old  England ;  and  the  account  of  their  lives,  their  zeal, 
their  eloquence  and  sufferings  for  conscience  sake,  is  one  of  the 
most  interesting  chapters  in  the  history  of  the  human  mind.  How 
high  it  can  soar  in  faith  !  How  nobly  it  can  arm  itself  with  re- 
solution and  fortitude !  How  far  it  can  surpass  itself  in 
cruelty  and  fraud  !  How  incapable  it  seems  to  be  of  good,  ex- 
cept as  it  is  urged  on  by  the  contention  with  evil  !  The  retired 
and  inflexible  descendants  of  the  Two  Thousand  Ejected  Minis- 
ters and  their  adherents  are  gone  with  the  spirit  of  persecution 
that  gave  a  soul  and  body  to  them;  and  with  them,  I  am  afraid 
the  spirit  of  liberty,  of  manly  independence,  and  of  inward  self- 
respect,  is  nearly  extinguished  in  England.  There  appears  to 
be  no  natural  necessity  for  evil,  but  that  there  is  a  perfect  indif- 
ference to  good  without  it.     One  thing  exists  and  has  a  value  set 


*  The  author  of  Virginius. 


ON  OLD  ENGLISH  WRITERS  AND  SPEAKERS  201 

upon  it  only  as  it  has  a  foil  in  some  other ;  learning  is  set  off  by 
ignorance,  liberty  by  slavery,  refinement  by  barbarism.  The 
cultivation  and  attainment  of  any  art  or  excellence  is  followed 
by  its  neglect  and  decay  ;  and  even  religion  owes  its  zest  to  the 
spirit  of  contradiction,  for  it  flourishes  most  from  persecution 
and  hostile  factions.  Mr.  Irving  speaks  of  the  great  superiority 
of  religion  over  every  other  motive,  since  it  enabled  its  professors 
to  "  endure  having  hot  molten  lead  poured  down  their  throats." 
He  ft>rget3  that  it  was  ■  religion  that  poured  it  down  their 
throats!,  and  that  this  principle,  mixed  with  the  frailty  of  human 
passion,  has  often  been  as  ready  to  inflict,  as  to  endure.  I  could 
make  the  world  good,  wise,  happy  to-morrow,  if,  when  made, 
it  would  be  contented  to  remain  so  without  the  alloy  of  mischief, 
misery,  and  absurdity :  that  is,  if  every  possession  did  not  re- 
quire the  principle  of  contrast,  contradiction,  and  excess,  to  en- 
liven and  set  it  off  and  keep  it  at  a  safe  distance  from  sameness 
and  insipidity. 

The  different  styles  of  art  and  schools  of  learning  vary  and 
fluctuate  on  this  principle.  After  the  Restoration  of  Charles, 
the  grave,  enthusiastic,  puritanical,  "  prick-eared"  style  became 
quite  exploded,  and  a  gay  and  piquant  style,  the  reflection  of 
courtly  conversation  and  polished  manners,  and  borrowed  from 
the  French,  came  into  fashion,  and  lasted  till  the  Revolution. 
Some  examples  of  the  same  thing  were  given  in  the  time  of 
Charles  I.  by  Sir  J.  Suckling  and  others,  but  they  were  eclipsed 
and  overlaid  by  the  prevalence  and  splendour  of  the  opposite  ex- 
amples. It  was  at  its  height,  however,  in  the  reign  of  the  re- 
stored monarch,  and  in  the  witty  and  licentious  writings  of 
Wycherley,  Congreve,  Rochester,  and  Waller.  Milton  alone 
stood  out  as  a  partisan  of  the  old  Elizabethan  school.  Out  of 
compliment,  I  suppose,  to  the  Houses  of  Orange  and  Hanover, 
we  sobered  down,  after  the  Revolution,  into  a  strain  of  greater 
demureness,  and  into  a  Dutch  and  German  fidelity  of  imitation 
of  domestic  manners  and  individual  character,  as  in  the  periodi- 
jal  Essayists,  and  in  the  works  of  Fielding  and  Hogarth.  Yet, 
if  the  two  last-named  painters  of  manners  are  not  English,  who 
are  so  ?  I  cannot  give  up  my  partiality  to  them  for  the  fag-end 
of  a  theory.  They  have  this  mark  of  genuine  English  intellect, 
that  they  constantly  combine  truth  of  external  observation  with 


202  TABLE  TALK. 


strength  of  internal  meaning.  The  Dutch  are  patient  observers 
of  nature,  but  want  character  and  feeling.  The  French,  as  far 
as  we  have  imitated  them,  aim  only  at  the  pleasing,  and  glance 
over  the  surfaces  of  words  and  things.  Thus  has  our  literature 
descended  (according  to  the  foregoing  scale)  from  the  tone  of  the 
pulpit  to  that  of  the  court  or  drawing-room,  from  the  drawing, 
room  into  the  parlour,  and  from  thence,  if  some  critics  say  true, 
into  the  kitchen  and  ale-house.     It  may  do  even  worse  than  that ! 

French  literature  has  undergone  great  changes  in  like  man- 
ner, and  was  supposed  to  be  at  its  height  in  the  time  of  Louis 
XIV.  We  sympathize  less,  however,  with  the  pompous  and  set 
speeches  in  the  tragedies  of  Racine  and  Corneille,  or  in  the  se 
rious  comedies  of  Moliere,  than  we  do  with  the  grotesque  farce? 
of  the  latter,  with  the  exaggerated  descriptions  and  humour  of 
Rabelais  (whose  wit  was  a  madness,  a  drunkenness,)  or  with  the 
accomplished  humanity,  the  easy  style,  and  gentlemanly  and 
scholar-like  sense  of  Montaigne.  But  these  we  consider  as  in  a 
great  measure  English,  or  as  what  the  old  French  character  in- 
clined to,  before  it  was  corrupted  by  courts  and  academies  of 
criticism.  The  exquisite  graces  of  La  Fontaine,  the  indifferent 
sarcastic  tone  of  Voltaire  and  Le  Sage,  who  make  light  of  every 
thing,  and  who  produce  their  greatest  effects  with  the  most  im- 
perceptible and  rapid  touches,  we  give  wholly  to  the  constitu- 
tional genius  of  the  French,  and  despair  of  imitating.  Perhaps 
in  all  this  we  proceed  by  guess-work  at  best.  Nations  (particu- 
larly rival  nations)  are  bad  judges  of  one  another's  literature  or 
physiognomy.  The  French  certainly  do  not  understand  us  :  it 
is  most  probable  we  do  not  understand  them.  How  slowly  great 
works,  great  names  make  their  way  across  the  Channel  !  M. 
Tracey's  ';  Ideologic"  has  not  yet  been  heard  of  among  us,  and 
a  Frenchman  who  asks  if  you  have  read  it  almost  subjects 
himself  to  the  suspicion  of  being  the  author.  They  have  also 
their  little  sects  and  parties  in  literature,  and  though  they  do  not 
nickname  and  vilify  their  rivals,  as  is  done  with  us,  (thanks  to  the 
national  politeness!)  yet  if  you  do  not  belong  to  the  prevailing  par- 
ty, they  very  civilly  suppress  all  mention  of  you,  your  name  is  no4, 
noticed  in  the  journals,  nor  your  work  inquired  for  at  the  shops. 

•  In  Paris,  to  be  popular,  you  must  wear  out,  they  say,  twenty  ra!r  of 


ON  OLD  ENGLISH  WRITERS  AND  SPEAKERS.        203 

Those  who  explain  every  thing  by  final  causes  (that  is,  who 
deduce  causes  from  effects,)  might  avail  themselves  of  their  pri- 
vilege on  this  occasion.  There  must  be  some  checks  to  the  ex- 
cessive increase  of  literature  as  of  population,  or  we  should  be 
overwhelmed  by  it ;  and  they  are  happily  found  in  the  envy,  dul- 
ness,  prejudices,  and  vanity  of  mankind.  While  we  think  we 
are  weighing  the  merits  of  an  author,  we  are  indulging  in  our 
own  national  pride,  indolence,  or  ill-humour,  by  laughing 
at  what  we  do  not  understand,  or  condemning  what  thwarts 
our  inclinations.  The  French  reduce  all  philosophy  to  a 
set  of  agreeable  sensations :  the  Germans  reduce  the  commonest 
things  to  an  abstruse  metaphysics.  The  one  are  a  mystical,  the 
other  a  superficial  people.  Both  proceed  by  the  severest  logic  ; 
but  the  real  guide  to  their  conclusions  is  the  proportion  of  phlegm 
or  mercury  in  their  dispositions.  When  we  appeal  to  a  man's 
reason  against  his  inclinations,  we  speak  a  language  without 
meaning,  and  which  he  will  not  understand.  Different  nations 
have  favourite  modes  of  feeling  and  of  accounting  for  things  to 
please  themselves  and  fall  in  with  their  ordinary  habits  ;  and  our 
different  systems  of  philosophy,  literature,  and  art  meet,  contend, 
and  repel  one  another  on  the  confines  of  opinion,  because  their 
elements  will  not  amalgamate  with  our  several  humours,  and  all 
the  while  we  fancy  we  settle  the  question  by  an  abstract  exercise 
of  reason,  and  by  laying  down  some  refined  and  exclusive  stan- 
dard of  taste.  There  is  no  great  harm  in  this  delusion,  nor  can 
there  be  much  in  seeing  through  it ;  for  we  shall  still  go  on  just 
as  we  did  before.* 

pumps  and  twenty  pair  of  silk  stockings,  in  calls  upon  the  different  newspaper 
editors.  In  England,  you  have  only  to  give  in  your  resignation  at  the  Trea- 
sury, and  you  receive  your  passport  to  the  John  Bull  Parnassus ;  otherwise 
you  are  shut  out  and  made  a  bye-word.  Literary  jealousy  and  littleness  is 
still  the  motive,  politics  the  pretext,  and  blackguardism  the  mode. 

*  Bonaparte  got  a  committee  of  the  French  Institute  to  draw  up  a  report 
of  the  Kantean  Philosophy  ;  he  might  as  well  have  ordered  them  to  draw  up 
a  report  of  the  geography  of  the  moon.  It  is  difficult  for  an  Englishman  to 
underhand  Kant;  for  a  Frenchman  impossible.  The  latter  has  a  certain 
routirv  of  phrases  into  which  his  ideas  run  habitually  as  into  a  mould,  and 
you  cannot  get  him  out  of  them. 

END    OF    PART    II. 


CONTENTS. 


TABLE  TALK.    SECOND  SERIES.    PART  L 


MM 

Hbsat  I. — On  the  Feeling  of  Immortality  in  Youth,    ...      I 

II. — On  the  Want  of  Money, 8 

III. — On  Sitting  for  One's  Picture,  .....  25 
IV. — Whether  Genius  is  conscious  of  its  Powers,  .  .  37 
V. — On  Londoners  and  Country  People,      .        .        .        .50 

VI. — On  Living  to  One's  Self, ,64 

VII. — On  Genius  and  Common  Sense, 78 

VIII. — Same  subject  continued, 92 

IX. — Hot  and  Cold, .        .  103 

X. — On  Thought  and  Action, 115 

XL — Portrait  by  Vandyke, ;  130 

XII.— On  Dreams, 148 

XIII. — On  Envy  (a  dialogue), 15*7 

XIV. — On  the  Difference  between  Writing  and  Speaking,  .  170 
XV. — On  Inconsistencies  in  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds'  Discourses,  192 

XVI. — The  same  subject  continued, 204 

XVII. — On  Qualifications  Necessary  to  Success  in  Life,       .  222 

XVIII. — Madame  Pasta  and  Mademoiselle  Mars,       .        .        .  239 

XIX. — Sir  Walter  Scott,  Racine,  and  Shakspeare,       .        .  258 


TABLE   TALI. 

ESSAY  I. 

On  the  feeling  of  immortality  in  youth. 

No  young  man  believes  he  shall  ever  die.  It  was  a  saying 
of  my  brother's,  and  a  fine  one.  There  is  a  feeling  of  Eternity 
ji  youth  which  makes  us  amends  for  everything.  To  be  young 
is  to  be  as  one  of  the  Immortals.  One  half  of  time  indeed  is 
spent — the  other  half  remains  in  store  for  us  with  all  its  count- 
less treasures,  for  there  is  no  line  drawn  and  we  see  no  limit  to 
our  hopes  and  wishes.     We  make  the  coming  age  our  own — 

"  The  vast,  unbounded  prospect  lies  before  us." 

Death,  old  age,  are  words  without  a  meaning,  a  dream,  a  fiction, 
with  which  we  have  nothing  to  do.  Others  may  have  undergone, 
or  may  still  undergo  them— we  "  bear  a  charmed  life,"  which 
laughs  to  scorn  all  such  idle  fancies.  As,  in  setting  out  on  a  de- 
lightful journey,  we  strain  our  eager  sight  forward, 

"  Bidding  the  lovely  scenes  at  distance  hail," 

and  see  no  end  to  prospect  after  prospect,  new  objects  presenting 
themselves  as  we  advance,  so  in  the  outset  of  life  we  see  no  end 
to  our  desires  nor  to  the  opportunities  of  gratifying  them.  We 
have  as  yet  found  no  obstacle,  no  disposition  to  flag,  and  it  seems 
that  we  can  go  on  so  for  ever.  We  -look  round  in  a  new  world, 
full  cf  life  and  motion,  and  ceaseless  progress,  and  feel  in  our- 
selves all  the  vigor  and  spirit  to  keep  pace  with  it,  and  do  not 
foresee  from  any  present  signs  how  we  shall  be  left  behind  in  the 
race,  decline  into  old  age,  and  drop  into  the  grave.     It  is  the 

SECOND    SERIES PAET  I.  2 


TABLE  TALK. 


simplicity  and,  as  it  were,  abstractedness  of  our  feelings  in  youth 
that  (so  to  speak)  identifies  us  with  nature  and  (our  experience 
Deing  weak  and  our  passion  strong)  makes  us  fancy  ourselves 
immortal  like  it.  Our  short-lived  connection  with  being,  we 
fondly  flatter  ourselves,  is  an  indissoluble  and  lasting  union.  As 
infants  smile  and  sleep,  we  are  rocked  in  the  cradle  of  our  de- 
sires, and  hushed  into  fancied  security  by  the  roar  of  the  universe 
around  us — we  quaff  the  cup  of  life  with  eager  thirst  without 
draining  it,  and  joy  and  hope  seem  ever  mantling  to  the  brim — 
objects  press  around  us,  filling  the  mind  with  their  magnitude 
and  with  the  throng  of  desires  that  wait  upon  them,  so  that  there 
is  no  room  for  the  thoughts  of  death.  We  are  too  much  dazzled 
by  the  gorgeousness  and  novelty  of  the  bright  waking  dream 
about  us  to  discern  the  dim  shadow  lingering  for  us  in  the  dis- 
tance. Nor  would  the  hold  that  life  has  taken  of  us  permit  us 
to  detach  our  thoughts  that  way  even  if  we  could.  We  are  too 
much  absorbed  in  present  objects  and  pursuits.  While  the  spirit 
of  youth  remains  unimpaired,  ere  "  the  wine  of  life  is  drunk,"  we 
are  like  people  intoxicated  or  in  a  fever,  who  are  hurried  away 
by  the  violence  of  their  own  sensations  :  it  is  only  as  present  ob- 
jects begin  to  pall  upon  the  sense,  as  we  have  been  disappointed 
m  our  favorite  pursuits,  cut  off  from  our  closest  ties,  that  we  by 
degrees  become  weaned  from  the  world,  that  passion  loosens  its 
hold  upon  futurity,  and  that  we  begin  to  contemplate  as  in  a  glass 
darkly  the  possibility  of  parting  with  it  for  good.  Till  then,  the 
example  of  others  has  no  effect  upon  us.  Casualties  we  avoid  ; 
the  slow  approaches  of  age  we  play  at  hide  and  seek  with.  Like 
the  foolish  fat  scullion  in  Sterne  who  hears  that  Master  Bobby  is 
dead,  our  only  reflection  is,  "  So  am  not  I !"  The  idea  of  death, 
instead  of  staggering  our  confidence,  only  seems  to  strengthen  and 
enhance  our  sense  of  the  possession  and  our  enjoyment  of  life. 
Others  may  fall  around  us  like  leaves  or  be  mowed  down  by  the 
scythe  of  Time  like  grass  :  these  are  but  metaphors  to  the  unre- 
flecting buoyant  ears  and  overweening  presumption  of  youth.  It 
is  not  till  we  see  the  flowers  of  Love,  Hope,  and  Joy  withering 
around  us,  that  we  give  up  the  flattering  delusions  that  before  led 
us  on,  and  that  the  emptiness  and  dreariness  of  the  prospect  be- 
fore us  reconciles  us  hypothetically  to  the  silence  of  the  grave. 


FEELING  OF  IMMORTALITY  IN  YOUTH.  3 

Life  is  indeed  a  strange  gift,  and  its  privileges  are  most  myste- 
rious. No  wonder  when  it  is  first  granted  to  us,  that  our  grati- 
tude, our  admiration,  and  our  delight,  should  prevent  us  from  re- 
flecting on  our  own  nothingness,  or  from  thinking  it  will  ever  be 
recalled.  Our  first  and  strongest  impressions  are  borrowed  from 
the  mighty  scene  that  is  opened  to  us,  and  we  unconsciously 
transfer  its  durability  as  well  as  its  splendor  to  ourselves.  So 
newly  found  we  cannot  think  of  parting  with  it  yet,  or  at  least 
put  off  that  consideration  sine  die.  Like  a  rustic  at  a  fair,  we 
are  full  of  amazement  and  rapture,  and  have  no  thought  of  going 
home,  or  that  it  will  soon  be  night.  We  know  our  existence  only 
by  ourselves,  and  confound  our  knowledge  with  the  objects  of  it. 
We  and  nature  are  therefore  one.  Otherwise  the  illusion,  the 
"  feast  of  reason  and  the  flow  of  soul,"  to  which  we  are  invited, 
is  a  mockery  and  a  cruel  insult.  We  do  not  go  from  a  play  till 
the  last  act  is  ended,  and  the  lights  are  about  to  be  extinguished. 
But  the  fairy  face  of  nature  still  shines  on  :  shall  we  be  called 
away  before  the  curtain  falls,  or  ere  we  have  scarce  had  a 
glimpse  of  what  is  going  on  ?  Like  children,  our  step-mother 
nature  holds  us  up  to  see  the  raree-show  of  the  universe,  and  then, 
as  if  we  were  a  burden  to  her  to  support,  lets  us  fall  down  again. 
Yet  what  brave  sublunary  things  does  not  this  pageant  present, 
like  a  ball  or  fete  of  the  universe  ! 

To  see  the  golden  sun,  the  azure  sky,  the  outstretched  ocean  ; 
to  walk  upon  the  green  earth,  and  to  be  lord  of  a  thousand  crea- 
tures ;  to  look  down  yawning  precipices  or  over  distant  sunny 
vales  ;  to  see  the  world  spread  out  under  one's  feet  on  a  map  ; 
to  bring  the  stars  near ;  to  view  the  smallest  insects  through  a 
microscope  ;  to  read  history,  and  consider  the  revolutions  of  em- 
pire and  the  successions  of  generations  ;  to  hear  of  the  glory  of 
Tyre,  of  Sidon,  of  Babylon,  and  of  Susa,  and  to  say  all  these  were 
before  me  and  are  now  nothing ;  to  say  I  exist  in  such  a  point  of 
time,  and  in  such  a  point  of  space  ;  to  be  a  spectator  and  a  part 
of  its  every  moving  scene  ;  to  witness  the  change  of  season,  of 
spring  and  autumn,  of  winter  and  summer  ;  to  feel  hot  and  cold, 
pleasure  and  pain,  beauty  and  deformity,  right  and  wrong  ;  to  be 
sensible  to  the  accidents  of  nature  ;  to  consider  the  mighty  world 
ol  eve  and  ear ;  to  listen  to  the  stock-dove's  notes  amid  the  forest 
18 


TABLE  TALK. 


deep ;  to  journey  over  moor  and  mountain  :  to  hear  the  mid- 
night sainted  choir ;  to  visit  lighted  halls,  or  the  cathedral's 
gloom,  or  sit  in  crowded  theatres  and  see  life  itself  mocked ;  to 
study  the  works  of  art,  and  refine  the  sense  of  beauty  to  agony  ; 
to  worship  fame,  and  to  dream  of  immortality  j  to  look  upon  the 
Vatican,  and  to  read  Shakspeare  ;  to  gather  up  the  wisdom  of 
the  ancients,  and  to  pry  into  the  future  ;  to  listen  to  the  trump 
of  war,  the  shout  of  victory  ;  to  question  history  as  to  the  move- 
ments  of  the  human  heart ;  to  seek  for  truth  ;  to  plead  the  cause 
of  humanity  ;  to  overlook  the  world  as  if  time  and  nature  poured 
their  treasures  at  our  feet, — to  be  and  to  do  all  this,  and  then  in 
a  moment  to  be  nothing — to  have  it  all  snatched  from  us  as  by  a 
juggler's  trick,  or  a  phantasmagoria !  There  is  something  in  this 
transition  from  all  to  nothing  that  shocks  us  and  damps  the  en- 
thusiasm of  youth  new  flushed  with  hope  and  pleasure,  and  we 
cast  the  comfortless  thought  as  far  from  us  as  we  can.  In  the 
first  enjoyment  of  the  estate  of  life  we  discard  the  fear  of  debts 
and  duns,  and  never  think  of  the  final  payment  of  our  great 
debt  to  nature.  Art  we  know  is  long,  life  we  flatter  ourselves 
should  be  so  too.  We  see  no  end  of  the  difficulties  and  delays 
we  have  to  encounter :  perfection  is  slow  of  attainment,  and  we 
must  have  time  to  accomplish  it  in.  The  fame  of  the  great 
names  we  look  up  to  is  immortal ;  and  shall  not  we  who  contem- 
plate it  imbibe  a  portion  of  etherial  fire,  the  divinm  particula  aura, 
which  nothing  can  extinguish  ?  A  wrinkle  in  Rembrandt  or  in 
nature  takes  whole  days  to  resolve  itself  into  its  component  parts, 
its  softenings  and  its  sharpnesses  ;  we  refine  upon  our  perfections, 
and  unfold  the  intricacies  of  nature.  What  a  prospect  for  the 
future  !  What  a  task  have  we  not  begun  !  And  shall  we  be 
arrested  in  the  middle  of  it  ?  We  do  not  count  our  time  thus 
employed  lost,  or  our  pains  thrown  away  ;  we  do  not  flag  or  grow 
tired,  but  gain  new  vigor  at  our  endless  task.  Shall  Time  then 
grudge  us  to  finish  what  we  have  begun,  and  have  formed  a  com- 
pact with  nature  to  do  ?  Why  not  fill  up  the  blank  that  is  left 
us  in  this  manner  ?  I  have  looked  for  hours  at  Rembrandt  with- 
out being  conscious  of  the  flight  of  time,  but  with  every  new  won- 
der and  delight,  have  thought  that  not  only  my  own  but  another 
existence  1  could  pass  in  the  same  manner.     This  rarefied,  re» 


FEELING  OF  IMMORTALITY  IN  YOUTH. 


fined  existence  seemed  to  have  no  end,  nor  stint,  nor  principle  of 
decay  in  it.  The  print  would  remain  long  after  I  who  looked  on 
it  had  become  the  prey  of  worms.  The  thing  seems  in  itself  out 
of  all  reason  :  health,  strength,  appetite  are  opposed  to  the  idea  of 
death,  and  we  are  not  ready  to  credit  it  till  we  have  found  our 
illusions  vanished,  and  our  hopes  grown  cold.  Objects  in  youth 
from  novelty,  &c,  are  stamped  upon  the  brain  with  such  force 
and  integrity  that  one  thinks  nothing  can  remove  or  obliterate 
them.  They  are  riveted  there,  and  appear  to  us  as  an  element 
of  our  nature.  It  must  be  a  mere  violence  that  destroys  them, 
not  a  natural  decay.  In  the  very  strength  of  this  persuasion  we 
seem  to  enjoy  an  age  by  anticipation.  We  melt  down  years  into 
a  single  moment  of  intense  sympathy,  and  by  anticipating  the 
fruits  defy  the  ravages  of  time.  If  then  a  single  moment  of  our 
lives  is  worth  years,  shall  we  set  any  limits  to  its  total  value  and 
extent  ?  Again,  does  it  not  happen  that  so  secure  do  we  think 
ourselves  of  an  indefinite  period  of  existence,  that  at  times  when 
left  to  ourselves,  and  impatient  of  novelty,  we  feel  annoyed  at 
what  seems  to  us  the  slow  and  creeping  progress  of  time,  and 
argue  that  if  it  always  moves  at  this  tedious  snail's  pace  it  will 
never  come  to  an  end  ?  How  ready  are  we  to  sacrifice  any 
space  of  time  which  separates  us  from  a  favorite  object,  little 
thinking  that  before  long  we  shall  find  it  move  too  fast ! 

For  my  own  part  I  started  in  life  with  the  French  Revolution, 
and  I  have  lived,  alas  !  to  see  the.  end  of  it.  But  I  did  not 
foresee  this  result.  My  sun  rose  with  the  first  dawn  of  liberty, 
and  I  did  not  think  how  soon  both  must  set.  The  new  impulse 
to  ardor  given  to  men's  minds  imparted  a  congenial  warmth  and 
glow  to  mine  ;  we  were  strong  to  run  a  race  together,  and  I  little 
dreamed  that  long  before  mine  was  set,  the  sun  of  liberty  would 
turn  to  blood,  or  set  once  more  in  the  night  of  despotism.  Since 
then,  I  confess,  I  have  no  longer  felt  myself  young,  for  with  that 
my  hopes  fell. 

I  have  since  turned  my  thoughts  to  gathering  up  some  of 
the  fragments  of  my  early  recollections,  and  putting  them  into 
a  form  to  which  I  might  occasionally  revert.  The  future  was 
barred  to  my  progress,  and  I  turned  for  consolation  and  encourage- 
ment to  the  past.       It  is  thus  that  while  we  find  our  person*' 


TABLE  TALK. 


and  substantial  identity  vanishing  from  us,  we  strive  to  gain 
a  reflected  and  vicarious  one  in  our  thoughts :  we  do  not  like 
to  perish  wholly,  and  wish  to  bequeathe  our  names,  at  least,  to 
posterity.  As  long  as  we  can  make  our  cherished  thoughts 
and  nearest  interests  live  in  the  minds  of  others,  we  do  not 
appear  to  have  retired  altogether  from  the  stage.  We  still 
occupy  the  breasts  of  others,  and  exert  an  influence  and  power 
over  them,  and  it  is  only  our  bodies  that  are  reduced  to  dust 
and  powder.  Our  favorite  speculations  still  find  encouragement, 
and  we  make  as  great  a  figure  in  the  eye  of  the  world  or 
perhaps  a  greater  than  in  our  life-time.  The  demands  of  our 
self-love  are  thus  satisfied,  and  these  are  the  most  imperious 
and  unremitting.  Besides,  if  by  our  intellectual  superiority 
we  survive  ourselves  in  this  world,  by  our  virtues  and  faith 
we  may  attain  an  interest  in  another,  and  a  higher  state  of 
being,  and  thus  flourish  in  immortal  youth,  and  may  thus  be  reci- 
pients at  the  same  time  of  men  and  angels. 

"  E'en  from  the  tomb  the  voice  of  nature  cries, 
E'en  in  our  ashes  live  their  wonted  fires." 

As  we  grow  old,  our  sense  of  the  value  of  time  becomes  vivid. 
Nothing  else  indeed  seems  of  any  consequence.  We  can  never 
cease  wondering  that  that  which  has  ever  been  should  cease 
to  be.  We  find  many  things  remain  the  same :  why  then 
should  there  be  change  in  us  ?  This  adds  a  convulsive  grasp 
of  whatever  is,  a  sense  of  fallacious  hollowness  in  all  we  see. 
Instead  of  the  full,  pulpy  feeling  of  youth  tasting  existence 
and  every  object  in  it,  all  is  flat  and  vapid, — a  whited  sepul- 
chre, fair  without  but  full  of  ravening  and  uncleanness  within. 
The  world  is  a  witch  that  puts  us  off  with  false  shows  and 
appearances.  The  simplicity  of  youth,  the  confiding  expecta- 
tion, the  boundless  raptures,  are  gone  :  we  only  think  of  get 
ting  out  of  it  as  well  as  we  can,  and  without  any  great  mis- 
chance or  annoyance.  The  flush  of  illusion,  even  the  com- 
placent retrospect  of  past  joys  and  hopes,  is  over  :  if  we  can 
slip  out  of  life  without  indignity,  can  escape  with  little  bodily 
infirmity,  and  frame  our  minds  to  the  calm  and  respectable 
composure  of  still-life,  before  we  return  to  absolute  nothingness, 


FEELING  OF  IMMORTALITY  IN  YOUTH.  7 

it  is  as  much  as  we  can  expect.  We  do  not  die  wholly  at 
our  deaths  :  we  have  mouldered  away  gradually  long  before. 
Faculty  after  faculty,  interest  after  interest,  attachment  after  at- 
tachment disappear  :  we  are  torn  from  ourselves  while  living, 
year  after  year  sees  us  no  longer  the  same,  and  death  only  con- 
signs the  last  fragment  of  what  we  were  to  the  grave.  That  we 
should  wear  out  by  slow  stages,  and  dwindle  at  last  into  nothing, 
is  not  wonderful,  when  even  in  our  prime  our  strongest  impres- 
sions leave  little  traces  but  for  the  moment,  and  we  are  the 
creatures  of  petty  circumstances.  How  little  effect  is  made  ou 
us  in  our  best  days  by  the  books  we  have  read,  the  scenes  we 
have  witnessed,  the  sensations  we  have  gone  through  !  Think 
only  of  the  feelings  we  experience  in  reading  a  fine  romance 
(one  of  Sir  Walter's,  for  instance)  ;  what  beauty,  what  sublimity, 
what  interest,  what  heart-rending  emotions  !  You  would  suppose 
the  feelings  you  then  experience  would  last  for  ever,  or  subdue 
the  mind  to  their  own  harmony  and  tone  :  while  we  are  reading 
it  seems  as  if  nothing  could  ever  after  put  us  out  of  our  way, 
or  trouble  us  : — the  first  splash  of  mud  that  we  get  on  entering 
he  street,  the  first  twopence  we  are  cheated  out  of,  the  feeling 
/anishes  clean  out  of  our  minds,  and  we  become  the  prey  of  petty 
and  annoying  circumstance.  The  mind  soars  to  the  lofty  :  it  is 
at  home  in  the  grovelling,  the  disagreeable,  and  the  little.  And 
yet  we  wonder  that  age  should  be  feeble  and  querulous, — that  the 
freshness  of  youth  should  fade  away.  Both  worlds  would  hardly 
satisfy  the  extravagance  of  our  desires  and  our  presumption. 


TABLE  TALK. 


ESSAY   II. 

Or.  the  Want  of  Money. 

It  is  hard  to  be  without  money.  To  get  on  without  it.  is  like  trav- 
elling  in  a  foreign  country  without  a  passport — you  are  stopped, 
suspected,  and  made  ridiculous  at  every  turn,  besides,  being  sub- 
jected  to  the  most  serious  inconveniences.  The  want  of  money  I 
here  allude  to  is  not  altogether  that  which  arises  from  absolute 
poverty — for  where  there  is  a  downright  absence  of  the  common 
necessaries  of  life,  this  must  be  remedied  by  incessant  hard  labor, 
and  the  least  we  can  receive  in  return  is  a  supply  of  our  daily 
wants — but  that  uncertain,  casual,  precarious  mode  of  existence, 
in  which  the  temptation  to  spend  remains  after  the  means  are  ex- 
hausted, the  want  of  money  joined  with  the  hope  and  possibility 
of  getting  it,  the  intermediate  state  of  difficulty  and  suspense  be- 
tween the  last  guinea  or  shilling  and  the  next  that  we  may  have 
the  good  luck  to  encounter.  This  gap.  this  unwelcome  interval, 
constantly  recurring,  however  shabbily  got  over,  is  really  full  of 
many  anxieties,  misgivings,  mortifications,  meannesses,  and  de- 
plorable embarrassments  of  every  description.  I  may  attempt 
(this  Essay  is  not  a  fanciful  speculation)  to  enlarge  upon  a  few 
of  them. 

It  is  hard  to  go  without  one's  dinner  through  sheer  distress,  but 
harder  still  to  go  without  one's  breakfast.  Upon  the  strength  o( 
that  first  and  aboriginal  meal,  one  may  muster  courage  to  face  the 
difficulties  before  one,  and  to  dare  the  worst :  but  to  be  roused  out 
of  one's  warm  bed,  and  perhaps  a  profound  oblivion  of  care,  with 
golden  dreams  (for  poverty  does  not  prevent  golden  dreams),  and 
told  there  is  nothing  for  breakfast,  is  cold  comfort,  for  which  one's 
half-strung  nerves  are  not  prepared,  and  throws  a  damp  upon  the 
prospects  of  the  day.  It  is  a  bad  beginning.  A  man  without  a 
breakfast  is  a  poor  creature,  unfit  to  go  in  search  of  one,  to  meet 


ON  THE  WANT  OF  MONEY. 


tne  frown  of  the  world,  or  to  borrow  a  shilling  of  a  friend.  He 
may  beg  at  the  corner  of  a  street — nothing  is  too  mean  for  the 
tone  of  his  feelings — robbing  on  the  highway  is  out  of  the  question, 
as  requiring  too  much  courage,  and  some  opinion  of  a  man's  self. 
It  is,  indeed,  as  old  Fuller,  or  some  worthy  of  that  age,  expresses 
it,  "  the  heaviest  stone  which  melancholy  can  throw  at  a  man,"  to 
learn,  the  first  thing  after  he  rises  in  the  morning,  or  even  to  be 
dunned  with  it  in  bed,  that  there  is  no  loaf,  tea,  or  butter  in  the 
house,  and  that  the  baker,  the  grocer,  and  the  butterman  have 
refused  to  give  any  farther  credit.  This  is  taking  one  sadly  at  a 
disadvantage.  It  is  striking  at  one's  spirit  and  resolution  in  their 
very  source,  the  stomach — it  is  attacking  one  on  the  side  of  hunger 
and  mortification  at  once ;  it  is  casting  one  into  the  very  mire  of 
humility  and  Slough  of  Despond.  The  worst  is,  to  know  what 
face  to  put  upon  the  matter,  what  excuse  to  make  to  the  servants, 
what  answer  to  send  to  the  tradespeople  ;  whether  to  laugh  it  off, 
or  be  grave,  or  angry,  or  indifferent ;  in  short,  to  know  how  to 
parry  off  an  evil  which  you  cannot  help.  What  a  luxury,  what 
a  God's-send  in  such  a  dilemma,  to  find  a  half-crown  which  had 
slipped  through  a  hole  in  the  lining  of  your  waistcoat,  a  crumpled 
banknote  in  your  breeches-pocket,  or  a  guinea  clinking  in  the 
bottom  of  your  trunk,  which  had  been  thoughtlessly  left  there  out 
of  a  former  heap !  Vain  hope  !  Unfounded  illusion  !  The  ex- 
perienced in  such  matters  know  better,  and  laugh  in  their  sleeves 
at  so  improbable  a  suggestion.  Not  a  corner,  not  a  cranny,  not  a 
pocket,  hot  a  drawer,  has  been  left  unrummaged,  or  has  no"  been 
subjected  over  and  over  again  to  more  .than  the  strictness  of  a 
custom-house  scrutiny.  Not  the  slightest  rustle  of  a  piece  of  bank- 
paper,  not  the  gentlest  pressure  of  a  piece  of  hard  metal,  but 
would  have  given  notice  of  its  hiding-place  with  electrical  rapidity, 
long  before,  in  such  circumstances.  All  the  variety  of  pecuniary 
resources,  which  form  a  legal  tender  in  the  current  coin  of  the 
realm,  are  assuredly  drained,  exhausted  to  the  last  farthing  before 
this  time.  But  is  there  nothing  in  the  house  that  one  can  turn  to 
account  ?  Is  there  not  an  old  family-watch,  or  piece  of  plate,  or  a 
ring,  or  some  worthless  trinket,  that  one  could  part  with  ?  nothing 
belonging  to  one's  self,  or  a  friend,  that  one  could  raise  the  wind 
upon,  till  something  better  turns  up  ?     At  this   moment  an  old- 

18 


10  TABLE  TALK. 


clothes  man  passes,  and  his  deep,  harsh  tones  sound  like  a  pre- 
meditated insult  on  one's  distress,  and  banish  the  thought  of  ap- 
plying for  his  assistance,  as  one's  eye  glances  furtively  at  an  old 
hat  or  a  great-coat,  hung  up  behind  a  closet-door.  Humiliating 
contemplations  !  Miserable  uncertainty  !  One  hesitates,  and  the 
opportunity  is  gone  by ;  for  without  one's  breakfast,  one  has  not 
the  resolution  to  do  anything  ! — The  late  Mr.  Sheridan  was  often 
reduced  to  this  unpleasant  predicament.  Possibly  he  had  little 
appetite  for  breakfast  himself;  but  the  servants  complained  bit- 
terly on  this  head,  and  said  that  Mrs.  Sheridan  was  sometimes 
kept  waiting  for  a  couple  of  hours,  while  they  had  to  hunt  through 
the  neighborhood,  and  beat  up  for  coffee,  eggs,  and  French  rolls. 
The  same  perplexity  in  this  instance  appears  to  have  extended  to 
the  providing  for  the  dinner ;  for  so  sharp-set  were  they,  that  to 
cut  short  a  debate  with  a  butcher's  apprentice  about  leaving  a  leg 
of  mutton  without  the  money,  the  cook  clapped  it  into  the  pot :  the 
butcher's  boy,  probably  used  to  such  encounters,  with  equal  cool- 
ness took  it  out  again,  and  marched  off  with  it  in  his  tray  in 
triumph.  It  required  a  man  to  be  the  author  of  "  The  School  for 
Scandal,"  to  run  the  gauntlet  of  such  disagreeable  occurrences 
every  hour  of  the  day.* 

*  Taylor,  of  the  Opera  House,  used  to  say  of  Sheridan,  that  he  could  not 
pull  off  his  hat  to  him  in  the  street  without  its  costing  him  fifty  pounds ;  and 
if  he  stopped  to  speak  with  him,  it  was  a  hundred.  No  one  could  be  a 
stronger  instance  than  he  was  of  what  is  called  living  from  hand  to  mouth. 
He  was  always  in  want  of  money,  though  he  received  vast  sums  which  he 
must  have  disbursed ;  and  yet  nobody  can  tell  what  became  of  them,  for  he 
paid  nobody.  He  spent  his  wife's  fortune  (sixteen  hundred  pounds)  in  a 
six  weeks'  jaunt  to  Bath,  and  returned  to  town  as  poor  as  a  rat.  Whenever 
he  and  his  son  were  invited  out  into  the  country,  they  always  went  in  two 
post-chaises  and  four  ;  he  in  one,  and  his  son  Tom  following  in  another. 
This  is  the  secret  of  those  who  live  in  a  round  of  extravagance,  and  are  at 
the  same  time  always  in  debt  and  difficulty — they  throw  away  all  the  ready 
money  they  get  upon  any  new-fangled  whim  or  project  that  comes  in  their 
way,  and  never  think  of  paying  off  old  scores,  which  of  course  accumulate 
to  a  dreadful  amount.  "  Such  gain  the  cap  of  him  who  makes  them  fine, 
yet  keeps  his  book  uncrossed."  Sheridan  once  wanted  to  take  Mrs.  Sheri- 
dan a  very  handsome  dress  down  into  the  country,  and  went  to  Barber  and 
Nunn's  to  order  it,  saying  he  must  have  it  by  such  a  day,  but  promising  they 
should  have  ready  money.     Mrs.  Barber  (I  think  it  was)  made  answer  that 


ON  THE  WANT  OF  MONEY.  11 

The  going  without  a  dinner  is  another  of  the  miseries  of  wanting 
money,  though  one  can  bear  up  against    his  calamity  better  than 

the  time  was  short,  but  that  ready  money  was  a  charming  thing,  and  that  he 
should  have  it.  Accordingly,  at  the  time  appointed,  she  brought  the  dress, 
which  came  to  five-and-twenty  pounds,  and  it  was  sent  in  to  Mr.  Sheridan, 
who  sent  out  a  Mr.  Grimm  (one  of  his  jackalls)  to  say  that  he  admired  it 
exceedingly,  and  that  he  was  sure  Mrs.  Sheridan  would  be  delighted  with 
it,  but  he  was  sorry  to  have  nothing  under  a  hundred  pound  banknote  in  the 
house.  She  said  she  had  come  provided  for  such  an  accident ;  and  could 
give  change  for  a  hundred,  two  hundred,  or  five  hundred  pound  note,  if  it 
were  necessary.  Grimm  then  went  back  to  his  principal  for  further  in- 
structions ;  who  made  an  excuse  that  he  had  no  stamped  receipt  by  him.  For 
this,  Mrs.  B.  said  she  was  also  provided  ;  she  had  brought  one  in  her  pocket. 
At  each  message,  she  could  hear  them  laughing  heartily  in  the  next  room, 
at  the  idea  of  hiving  met  with  their  match  for  once  ;  and  presently  after, 
Sheridan  came  out  in  high  good  humor,  and  paid  her  the  amount  of  her  bill 
in  ten,  five,  and  one  pound  notes.  Once  when  a  creditor  brought  him  a  bill 
for  payment  which  had  often  been  presented  before,  and  the  man  complained 
of  its  soiled  and  tattered  state,  and  said  he  was  quite  ashamed  to  see  it, 
"  I'll  tell  you  what  I'd  advise  you  to  do  with  it,  my  friend,"  said  Sheridan; 
"  take  it  home,  and  write  it  upon  parchment!"  He  once  mounted  a  horse 
which  a  horse-dealer  was  showing  off  near  a  coffee-house  at  the  bottom 
of  St.  James's  street,  rode  it  to  Tattersall's,  and  sold  it,  and  walked  quietly 
back  to  the  spot  from  which  he  set  out.  The  owner  was  furious,  swore  ho 
would  be  the  death  of  him  ;  and,  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour  afterwards,  they 
were  seen  sitting  together  over  a  bottle  of  wine  in  the  coffee-house,  the 
horse-jockey  with  the  tears  running  down  his  face  at  Sheridan's  jokes-,  and 
almost  ready  to  hug  him  as  an  honest  fellow.  Sheridan's  house  and  lobby 
were  beset  with  duns  every  morning,  who  were  told  that  Mr.  Sheridan  was 
not  yet  up,  and  shown  into  the  several  rooms  on  each  side  of  the  entrance. 
As  soon  as  he  had  breakfasted,  he  asked,  "  Are  those  doors  all  shut,  John  ?" 
and,  being  assured  they  were,  marched  out  very  deliberately  between  them, 
to  the  astonishment  of  his  self-invited  guests,  who  soon  found  the  bird  was 
flown.  I  have  heard  one  of  his  old  city  friends  declare,  that  such  was  the  effect 
of  his  frank,  cordial  manner,  and  insinuating  eloquence,  that  he  was  always 
afraid  to  go  to  ask  him  for  a  debt  of  long  standing,  lest  he  should  borrow 
twice  as  much.  A  play  had  been  put  off  one  night,  or  a  favorite  actor  did 
not  appear,  and  the  audience  demanded  to  have  their  money  back  again  : 
but  when  they  came  to  the  door  they  were  told  by  the  check-takers  there 
wa3  none  for  them,  for  that  Mr.  Sheridan  had  been  in  the  meantime,  and 
had  carried  off  all  the  money  in  the  till.  He  used  often  to  get  the  old  cob- 
bler who  kept  a  stall  under  the  ruins  of  Drury  Lane  to  broil  a  beef-steak  for 
him,  and  take  their  dinner  together.  On  the  night  that  Drury  Lane  was 
burnt  down,  Sheridan  was  in  the  House  of  Commons,  making  a  speech, 
though  he  could  hardly  stand  without  leaning  his  hands  on  the  table,  and  it 

18* 


12  TABLE  TALK. 


the  former,  which  really  "  blights  the  tender  blossom  and  promise 
of  the  day."  With  one  good  meal,  one  may  hold  a  parley  with 
hunger,  and  moralize  upon  temperance.  One  has  time  to  turn 
one's  self,  and  look  about  one — to  "  screw  one's  courage  to  the 
sticking-place,"  to  graduate  the  scale  of  disappointment,  and  stave 
off  appetite  tili  supper-time.  You  gain  time,  and  time  in  this 
weather-cock  world  is  everything.  You  may  dine  at  two,  or  at 
six,  or  seven — as  most  convenient.  You  may  in  the  meanwhile 
receive  an  invitation  to  dinner,  or  some  one  (not  knowing  how 
you  are  circumstanced)  may  send  you  a  present  of  a  haunch  of 
venison,  or  a  brace  of  pheasants,  from  the  country,  or  a  distant 
relation  may  die  and  leave  you  a  legacy,  or  a  patron  may  call 
and  overwhelm  you  with  his  smiles  and  bounty, 

"  As  kind  as  kings  upon  their  coronation  day ;" 


was  with  some  difficulty  he  was  forced  away,  urging  the  plea,  "  What  sig- 
nified the  concerns  of  a  private  individual,  compared  to  the  good  of  the 
state  ?"  When  he  got  to  Covent  Garden,  he  went  into  the  Piazza  Coffee- 
House,  to  steady  himself  with  another  bottle,  and  then  strolled  out  to  the 
end  of  the  Piazza  to  look  at  the  progress  of  the  fire.  Here  he  was  accosted 
by  Charles  Kemble  and  Fawcett,  who  complimented  him  on  the  calmness 
with  which  he  seemed  to  regard  so  great  a  loss.  He  declined  this  praise, 
and  said — "  Gentlemen,  there  are  but  three  things  in  human  life  that  in  my 
opinion  ought  to  disturb  a  wise  man's  patience  The  first  of  these  is  bodily 
pain,  and  that  (whatever  the  ancient  stoics  may  have  said  to  the  contrary) 
is  too  much  for  any  man  to  bear  without  flinching:  this  I  have  felt  severely, 
and  I  know  it  to  be  the  case.  The  second  is  the  loss  of  a  friend  whom  you 
have  dearly  loved  ;  that,  gentlemen,  is  a  great  evil  :  this  I  have  also  felt, 
and  I  know  it  to  be  too  much  for  any  man's  fortitude.  And  the  third  is  the 
consciousness  of  having  done  an  unjust  action.  That,  gentlemen,  is  a  great 
evil,  a  very  great  evil,  too  much  for  any  man  to  endure  the  refaction  of ; 
but  that "  (laying  his  hand  upon  his  heart),  "  but  that,  thank  God,  I  have 
never  felt ! "  I  have  been  told  that  these  were  nearly  the  very  words,  except 
that  he  appealed  to  the  mens  conscia  recti  very  emphatically  three  or  four 
limes  over,  by  an  excellent  authority,  Mr.  Matthews  the  player,  who  was 
on  the  spot  at  the  time, — a  gentleman  whom  the  public  admire  deservedly, 
but  with  whose  real  talents  and  nice  discrimination  of  character  his  fiiends 
only  are  acquainted.  Sheridan's  reply  to  the  watchman  who  had  picked 
him  up  in  the  street,  and  who  wanted  to  know  wio  he  was,  " I  am  M-. 
Wilberforce  !"— is  well  known,  and  shows  that,  however  frequently  )  • 
might  be  at  a  loss  for  money,  he  never  wanted  wit  ! 


ON  THE  WANT  OF  MONEY.  13 

or  there  is  no  saying  what  may  happen.  One  may  wait  for 
dinner — breakfast  admits  of  no  delay,  of  no  interval  interposed 
between  that  and  our  first  waking  thoughts.*  Besides,  there  are 
shifts  and  devices,  shabby  and  mortifying  enough,  but  still  avail- 
able in  case  of  need.  How  many  expedients  are  there  in  this 
great  city,  time  out  of  mind  and  times  without  number,  resorted 
to  by  the  dilapidated  and  thrifty  speculator,  to  get  through  this 
grand  difficulty  without  utter  failure  !  One  may  dive  into  a  cellar, 
and  dine  on  boiled  beef  and  carrots  for  temperance,  with  the  knives 
and  forks  chained  to  the  table,  and  jostled  by  greasy  elbows  that 
seem  to  make  such  precaution  not  unnecessary  (hunger  is  proof 
against  indignity  ! ) — or  one  may  contrive  to  part  with  a  super- 
fluous article  of  wearing  apparel,  and  carry  home  a  mutton-chop  and 
cook  it  in  a  garret ;  or  one  may  drop  in  at  a  friend's  at  the  dinner- 
hour,  and  be  asked  to  stay  or  not ;  or  one  may  walk  out  and  take  a 
turn  in  the  Park,  about  the  time,  and  return  home  to  tea,  so  as  at  least 
to  avoid  the  sting  of  the  evil — the  appearance  of  not  having  dined. 
You  then  have  the  laugh  on  your  side,  having  deceived  the  gossips, 
and  can  submit  to  the  want  of  a  sumptuous  repast  without  mur- 
muring, having  saved  your  pride,  and  made  a  virtue  of  necessity. 
I  say  all  this  may  be  done  by  a  man  without  family  (for  what 
business  has  a  man  without  money  with  one  ? — See  English  Mal- 
thus  and  Scotch  Macculloch) — and  it  is  only  my  intention  here  to 
bring  forward  such  instances  of  the  want  of  money  as  are  tole- 
rable both  in  theory  and  practice.  I  once  lived  on  coffee  (as  an 
experiment)  for  a  fortnight  together,  while  I  was  finishing  the  copy 
of  a  half-length  portrait  of  a  Manchester  manufacturer,  who  died 
worth  a  plum.  I  rather  slurred  over  the  coat,  which  was  a  red- 
dish brown,  "of  formal  cut,"  to  receive  my  five  guineas,  with 
which  I  went  to  market  myself,  and  dined  on  sausages  and 
mashed  potatoes,  and  while  they  were  getting  ready,  and  I  could 
hear  them  hissing  in  the  pan,  read  a  volume  of  "  Gil  Bias,"  con- 
taining the  account  of  the  fair  Aurora.  This  was  in  the  days  of 
my  youth.  Gentle  reader,  do  not  smile  !  Neither  Monsieur  de 
Very,  nor  Louis  XVIII.,  over  an  oyster-pat^,  nor  Apicius  himself, 
ever  understood  the  meaning  of  the  word  luxury,  better  than  I  dia 

*  In  Scotland,  it  seems,  the  draught  of  ale  or  whiskey,  with  which  )  >u 
commence  the  day,  is  emphatically  called  "  taking  your  morning." 


14  TABLE  TALK. 


at  that  moment !  If  the  want  of  money  has  its  drawbacks  and 
disadvantages,  it  is  not  without  its  contrasts  and  counterbalancing 
effects,  for  which  I  fear  nothing  else  can  make  us  amends.  Ame- 
lia's hashed  mutton  is  immortal ;  and  there  is  something  amus- 
ing, though  carried  to  excess  and  caricature  (which  is  very 
unusual  with  the  author)  in  the  contrivance  of  old  Caleb,  in  "  The 
Bride  of  Lammermuir,"  for  raising  the  wind  at  breakfast,  dinner, 
and  supper-time.  I  recollect  a  ludicrous  instance  of  a  disappoint- 
ment in  a  dinner  which  happened  to  a  person  of  my  acquaintance 
some  years  ago.  He  was  not  only  poor,  but  a  very  poor  creature, 
as  will  be  imagined.  His  wife  had  laid  by  fourpence  (their  whole 
remaining  stock)  to  pay  for  the  baking  of  a  shoulder  of  mutton 
and  potatoes,  which  they  had  in  the  house,  and  on  her  return  home 
from  some  errand,  she  found  he  had  expended  it.  in  purchasing  a 
new  string  for  a  guitar.  On  this  occasion,  a  witty  friend  quoted 
the  lines  from  Milton  : — 

"  And  ever  against  eating  cares, 
Wrap  me  in  soft  Lydian  airs  !  " 

Defoe,  in  his  "  Life  of  Colonel  Jack,"  gives  a  striking  picture  of 
his  young  beggarly  hero  sitting  with  his  companion  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life  at  a  three-penny  ordinary,  and  the  delight  with 
which  he  relished  the  hot  smoking  soup,  and  the  airs  with  which 
he  called  about  him — "  and  every  time,"  he  says,  "  we  called 
for  bread  or  beer,  or  whatever  it  might  be,  the  waiter  answered, 
'coming,  gentlemen,  coming  ;'  and  this  delighted  me  more  than 
all  the  rest."  It  was  about  this  time,  as  the  same  pithy  author 
expresses  it,  "  the  Colonel  took  upon  him  to  wear  a  shirt !"  No- 
thing can  be  finer  than  the  whole  of  the  feeling  conveyed  in  the 
commencement  of  this  novel,  about  wealth  and  finery  from  the 
immediate  contrast  of  privation  and  poverty.  One  would  think  it 
a  labor,  like  the  Tower  of  Babel,  to  build  up  a  beau  and  a  fine 
gentleman  about  town.  The  little  vagabond's  admiration  of  the 
old  man  at  the  banking  house,  who  sits  surrounded  by  heaps  of 
gold,  as  if  it  were  a  dream  or  poetic  vision,  and  his  own  eager, 
anxious  visits  day  by  day,  to  the  hoard  he  had  deposited  in  the 
hollow  tree,  are  in  the  very  foremost  style  of  truth  and  nature. 
See  the  same  intense  feeling  expressed  in  Luke's  address  to  his 


ON   THE  WANT  OF  MONEY.  15 

riches,  in  the  "  City  Madam,"  and  in  the  extraordinary  raptures 
of  the  "  Spanish  Rogue,"  in  contemplating  and  hugging  his  ingots 
of  pure  gold  and  Spanish  pieces  of  eight :  to  which  Mr.  Lamb 
has  referred  in  excuse  for  the  rhapsodies  of  some  of  our  elder 
poets  on  this  subject,  which,  to  our  present  more  refined  and  tamer 
apprehensions,  sound  like  blasphemy.*  In  earlier  times,  before 
the  diffusion  of  luxury,  of  knowledge,  and  other  sources  of  enjoy- 
ment had  become  common,  and  acted  as  a  diversion  to  the  crav- 
ings of  avarice,  the  passionate  admiration,  the  idolatry,  the  hun- 
ger and  thirst  of  wealth  and  all  its  precious  symbols,  was  a  kind 
of  madness  or  hallucination,  and  Mammon  was  truly  worshipped 
as  a  god  ! 

It  is  among  the  miseries  of  the  want  of  money,  not  to  be  able 
to  pay  your  reckoning  at  an  inn — or,  if  you  have  just  enough  to 
do  that,  to  have  nothing  left  for  the  waiter ; — to  be  stopped  at  a 
turnpike  gate,  and  forced  to  turn  back  ; — not  to  venture  to'  call  a 
hackney-coach  in  a  shower  of  rain — (when  you  have  only  one 
shilling  left  yourself,  it  is  a  bore  to  have  it  taken  out  of  your  pocket 
by  a  friend,  who  comes  into  your  house  eating  peaches  in  a  hot 
summer's  day,  and  desiring  you  to  pay  for  the  coach  in  which  he 
visits  you) ; — not  to  be  able  to  purchase  a  lottery  ticket  by  which 
you  might  make  your  fortune,  and  get  out  of  all  your  difficulties  ; 
■ — or  to  find  a  letter  lying  for  you  at  a  country  post  office,  and  not 
to  have  money  in  your  pocket  to  free  it,  and  to  be  obliged  to  return 
for  it  the  next  day. 

The  letter  so  unseasonably  withheld  may  be  supposed  to  con- 
tain money,  and  in  this  case  there  is  a  foretaste,  a  sort  of  actual 
possession  taken  through  the  thin  folds  of  the  paper  and  the  wax, 
which,  in  some  measure,  indemnifies  us  for  the  delay :  the  bank- 
note, the  post-bill  seems  to  smile  upon  us,  and  shake  hands  through 
its  prison  bars ; — or  it  may  be  a  love-letter,  and  then  the  tantali- 
sation  is  at  its  height :  to  be  deprived  in  this  manner  of  the  only 
consolation  that  can  make  us  amends  for  the  want  of  money,  by 
this  very  want — to  fancy  you  see  the  name — to  try  to  get  a  peep 
at  the  hand-writing — to  touch  the  seal,  and  yet  not  dare  to  break 
it  open — is  provoking  indeed — the  climax  of  amorous  and  gen- 

*  Shylock's  lamentation  over  the  loss  of  "  his  daughter  and  his  ducats,' 
fa  another  case  in  point. 


16  TABLE   TALK. 


tleinanly  distress.  Players  are  sometimes  reduced  to  great  extr»» 
mity,  by  the  seizure  of  their  scenes  and  dresses,  or  (what  is  called) 
the  -property  of.  the  theatre,  which  hinders  them  from  acting  :  as 
authors  are  prevented  from  finishing  a  work,  for  want  of  money 
to  buy  the  books  necessary  to  be  consulted  on  some  material  point 
or  circumstance,  in  the  progress  of  it. 

There  is  a  set  of  poor  devils,  who  live  upon  a  printed  prospectus 
of  a  work  that  never  will  be  written,  for  which  they  solicit  your 
name  and  half-a-crown.  Decayed  actresses  take  an  annual  bene- 
fit at  one  of  the  theatres;  there  are  patriots  who  live  upon  periodi- 
cal subscriptions,  and  critics  who  go  about  the  country  lecturing 
on  poetry.  I  confess  I  envy  none  of  these  ;  but  there  are  persons 
who,  provided  they  can  live,  care  not  how  they  live — who  are 
fond  of  display,  even  when  it  implies  exposure  ;  who  court  noto- 
riety under  every  shape,  and  embrace  the  public  with  demonstra- 
tions of  wantonness.  There  are  genteel  beggars,  who  send  up 
a  well-penned  epistle  requesting  the  loan  of  a  shilling.  Your 
snug  bachelors  and  retired  old  maids  pretend  they  can  distinguish 
the  knock  of  one  of  these  at  their  door.  I  scarce  know  which  I 
dislike  the  most — the  patronage  that  affects  to  bring  premature 
genius  into  notice,  or  that  extends  its  piece-meal,  formal  chai  ity 
towards  it  in  its  decline.  I  hate  your  Literary  Funds  and  Funds 
for  decayed  Artists — they  are  corporations  for  the  encouragement 
of  meanness,  pretence,  and  insolence.  Of  all  people,  I  cannot 
tell  how  it  is,  but  the  players  appear  to  me  the  best  able  to  do 
without  money.  They  are  a  privileged  class.  If  not  exempt 
from  the  common  calls  of  necessity  and  business,  they  are  enabled 
"  by  their  so  potent  art,"  to  soar  above  them.  As  they  make  ima- 
ginary ills  their  own,  real  ones  become  imaginary,  sit  light  upon 
them,  and  are  thrown  off  with  comparatively  little  trouble.  Their 
life  is  theatrical — its  various  accidents  are  the  shifting  scenes  of 
a  play — rags  and  finery,  tears  and  laughter,  a  mock  dinner  or  a 
re?l  one,  a  crown  of  jewels  or  of  straw,  are  to  them  nearly  the 
sajne.  I  am  sorry  I  cannot  carry  on  this  reasoning  to  actors  who 
are  past  their  prime.  The  gilding  of  their  profession  is  then  worn 
ofr,  and  shows  the  false  metal  beneath  ;  vanity  and  hope  (the 
props  of  their  existence)  have  had  their  day ;  their  former  gaiety 
and  carelessness  serve  as  a  foil  to  their  present  discouragement  j 


ON  THE  WANT  OF  MONEY.  17 

and  want  and  infirmities  press  upon  them  at  once.  "  We  Know 
what  we  are,"  as  Ophelia  says,  "  but  we  know  not  what  we  shall 
be."  A  workhouse  seems  the  last  resort  of  poverty  and  distress — 
a  parish-pauper  is  another  name  for  all  that  is  mean  and  to  be 
deprecated  in  human  existence.  But  that  name  is  but  an  abstrac- 
tion, an  average  term — "  within  that  lowest  deep,  a  lower  deep 
may  open  to  receive  us."  I  heard,  not  long  ago,  of  a  poor  man 
who  had  been  for  many  years  a  respectable  tradesman  in  Lon- 
don, and  who  was  compelled  to  take  shelter  in  one  of  those  recep- 
tacles of  age  and  wretchedness,  and  who  said  he  could  be  contented 
with  it — he  had  his  regular  meals,  a  nook  in  the  chimney,  and  a 
coat  to  his  back — but  he  was  forced  to  lie  three  in  a  bed,  and  one 
of  the  three  was  out  of  his  mind  and  crazy,  and  his  great  delight 
^was,  when  the  others  fell  asleep,  to  tweak  their  noses,  and  flourish 
his  night-cap  over  their  heads,  so  that  they  were  obliged  to  lie 
awake,  and  hold  him  down  between  them.  One  should  be  quite 
mad  to  bear  this.  To  what  a  point  of  human  insignificance  may 
not  human  life  dwindle  !  To  what  fine,  agonizing  threads  will  it 
not  cling  !  Yet  this  man  had  been  a  lover  in  his  youth,  in  a  hum- 
ble way,  and  still  begins  his  letters  to  an  old  maid  (his  former 
flame),  who  sometimes  comforts  him  by  listening  to  his  com- 
plaints, and  treating  him  to  a  dish  of  weak  tea,  "  My  dear  Miss 
Nancy  !" 

Another  of  the  greatest  miseries  of  a  want  of  money,  is  the  tap 
of  a  dun  at  your  door,  or  the  previous  silence  when  you  expect 
it — the  uneasy  sense  of  shame  at  the  approach  of  your  tormentor ; 
the  wish  to  meet,  and  yet  to  shun  the  encounter ;  the  disposition 
to  bully,  yet  the  fear  of  irritating ;  the  real  and  the  sham  excuses ; 
the  submission  to  impertinence  ;  the  assurances  of  a  speedy  sup- 
ply;  the  disingenuousness  you  practise  on  him  and  on  yourself; 
the  degradation  in  the  eyes  of  others  and  your  own.  Oh  !  it  is 
wretched  to  have  to  confront  a  just  and  oft- repeated  demand,  and 
to  be  without  the  means  to  satisfy  it ;  to  deceive  the  confidence 
that  has  been  placed  in  you  ;  to  forfeit  your  credit ;  to  be  placed 
at  the  power  of  another,  to  be  indebted  to  his  lenity  ;  to  stand  con- 
victed of  having  played  the  knave  or  the  fool  ;  and  to  have  no 
way  left  to  escape  contempt  but  by  incurring  pity.  The  suddenly 
meeting  a  creditor  on  turning  the  corner  of  a  street,  whom  yoi_ 

SECOND  SERIES.       PART  I.  3 


18  TABLE  TALK. 


have  been  trying  to  avoid  for  months,  and  had  persuaded  you  were 
several  hundred  miles  off,  discomposes  the  features  and  shatters  the 
nerves  for  some  time.  It  is  also  a  serious  annoyance  to  be  unable  tc 
repay  a  loan  to  a  friend,  who  is  in  want  of  it — nor  is  it  very  pleasant 
to  be  so  hard  run,  as  to  be  induced  to  request  a  repayment.  It  is 
difficult  to  decide  the  preference  between  debts  of  honor  and  legal 
demands ;  both  are  bad  enough,  and  almost  a  fair  excuse  for 
driving  any  one  into  the  hands  of  money  lenders — to  whom  an 
application,  if  successful,  is  accompanied  with  a  sense  of  being 
in  the  vulture's  gripe — a  reflection  akin  to  that  of  those  who  for- 
merly sold  themselves  to  the  devil — or,  if  unsuccessful,  is  rendered 
doubly  galling  by  the  smooth,  civil  leer  of  cold  contempt  with  which 
you  are  dismissed,  as  if  they  had  escaped  from  your  clutches — 
not  you  from  theirs.  If  anything  can  be  added  to  the  mortifica- 
tion and  distress  arising  from  straitened  circumstances,  it  is  when 
vanity  comes  in  to  barb  the  dart  of  poverty — when  you  had  a 
picture  on  which  you  had  calculated,  rejected  from  an  exhibition, 
01  a  manuscript  returned  on  your  hands,  or  a  tragedy  damned,  at 
the  very  instant  when  your  cash  and  credit  are  at  the  lowest  ebb. 
This  forlorn  and  hopeless  feeling  has  reached  its  acme  in  the  pri- 
son-scene in  Hogarth's  "  Rake's  Progress,"  where  his  unfortunate 
hero  has  just  dropped  the  Manager's  letter  from  his  hands,  with 
the  laconic  answer  written  in  it :  "  Your  play  has  been  read,  and 
won't  do."*  To  feel  poverty  is  bad  ;  but  to  feel  it  with  the  addi- 
tional sense  of  our  incapacity  to  shake  it  off,  and  that  we  have  not 
merit  enough  to  retrieve  our  circumstances — and,  instead  of  being 
held  up  to  admiration,  are  exposed  to  persecution  and  insult — is  the 
last  stage  of  human  infirmity.  We  have  heard  it  remarked,  that 
the  most  pathetic  story  in  the  world  is  that  of  Smollett's  fine  gen- 
tleman and  lady  in  gaol,  who  have  been  roughly  handled  by  the 
mob  for  some  paltry  attempt  at  raising  the  wind,  and  she  exclaims 
in  extenuation  of  the  pitiful  figure  he  cuts,  "  Ah  !  he  was  a  fine 
fellow  once  !" 

It  is  justly  remarked  by  the  poet,  that  poverty  has  no  greater 

*  It  is  provoking  enough,  and  makes  one  look  like  a  fool,  to  receive  » 
printed  notice  of  a  blank  in  the  last  lottery,  with  a  postscript  hoping  for 
your  future  favors. 


ON   THE  WANT  OF  MONEY  la 


inconvenience  attached  to  it  than  that  of  making  men  ridiculous. 
It  not  only  has  this  disadvantage  with  respect  to  ourselves,  but  it 
often  shows  us  others  in  a  very  contemptible  point  of  view.  Peo- 
ple are  not  soured  by  misfortune,  but  by  the  reception  they  meet 
with  in  it.  When  we  do  not  want  assistance,*  every  one  is  ready 
to  obtrude  it  on  us,  as  if  it  were  advice.  If  we  do,  they  shun  us 
instantly.  They  anticipate  the  increased  demand  on  their  sym- 
.  pathy  or  bounty,  and  escape  from  it  as  from  a  falling  houue.  It 
is  a  mistake,  however,  that  we  court  the  society  of  the  rich  and 
prosperous,  merely  with  a  view  to  what  we  can  get  from  them. 
We  do  so,  because  there  is  something  in  external  rank  and  splen- 
dor that  gratifies  and  imposes  on  the  imagination  ;  just  as  we  pre- 
fer the  company  of  those  who  are  in  good  health  and  spirits  to  that 
of  the  sickly  and  hypochondrical,  or  as  we  would  rather  converse 
with  a  beautiful  woman  than  with  an  ugly  one.  I  never  knew 
but  one  man  who  would  lend  his  money  freely  and  fearlessly  in 
spite  of  circumstances  (if  you  were  likely  to  pay  him,  he  grew 
peevish,  and  would  pick  a  quarrel  with  you).  I  can  only  account 
for  this  from  a  certain  sanguine  buoyancy  and  magnificence  of  spi- 
rit, not  deterred  by  distant  consequences,  or  damped  by  untoward 
appearances.  I  have  been  told  by  those  who  shared  of  the  same 
bounty,  that  it  was  not  owing  to  generosity,  but  ostentation — if  so, 
he  kept  his  ostentation  a  secret  from  me,  for  I  never  received  a 
hint  or  a  look  from  which  I  could  infer  that  I  was  not  the  len-ier, 
and  he  the  person  obliged.  Neither  was  I  expected  to  keep  in 
the  back-ground,  or  play  an  under  part.  On  the  contrary,  I  was 
encouraged  to  do  my  best ;  my  dormant  faculties  roused,  the 
ease  of  my  circumstances  was  on  condition  of  the  freedom  and 
independence  of  my  mind,  my  lucky  hits  were  applauded,  and 
I  was  paid  to  shine.  I  am  not  ashamed  of  such  patronage  as 
this,  nor  do  I  regret  any  circumstance  relating  to  it  but  its  termi- 
nation. People  endure  existence  even  in  Paris ;  the  rows  of 
chairs  on  the  Boulevards  are  gay  with  smiles  and  dress :  the  sa- 
loons  are  brilliant ;  at  the  theatre  there  is  Mademoiselle  Mars — 
what  is  all  this  to  me  ?  After  a  certain  period,  we  live  only  in 
the  past.  Give  me  back  one  single  evening  at  Boxhill,  after  a 
stroll  in  the  deep-empurpled  woods,  before  Bonaparte  was  yet 
beaten,  "  with  wine  of  attic  taste,"  when  wit,  beauty,  friendship 


20  TABLE  TALK 


presided  at  the  board  !  But  no  !  Neither  the  time  nor  friends  that 
are  fled,  can  be  recalled ! — Poverty  is  the  test  of  sincerity,  the 
touchstone  of  civility.  Even  abroad,  they  treat  you  scurvily  if 
your  remittances  do  not  arrive  regularly,  and  though  you  have 
hitherto  lived  like  a  Milord  Anglais.  The  want  of  money  bses 
us  friends  not  worth  the  keeping,  mistresses  who  are  naturally  jilts 
or  coquets  ;  it  cuts  us  out  of  society,  to  which  dress  and  equip- 
age are  the  only  introduction ;  and  deprives  us  of  a  number  of 
luxuries  and  advantages  of  which  the  only  good  is,  that  they  can 
only  belong  to  the  possessors  of  a  large  fortune.  Many  people 
are  wretched  because  they  have  not  money  to  buy  a  fine  horse, 
or  to  hire  a  fine  house,  or  to  keep  a  carriage,  or  to  purchase  a 
diamond  necklace,  or  to  go  to  a  raceball,  or  to  give  their  servants 
new  liveries.  I  cannot  myself  enter  into  all  this.  If  I  can  live 
to  think,  and  think  to  live,  I  am  satisfied.  Some  want  to  possess 
pictures,  others  to  collect  libraries.  All  I  wish  is,  sometimes,  to 
see  the  one,  and  read  the  other.  Gray  was  mortified  because  he 
had.  not  a  hundred  pounds  to  bid  for  a  curious  library  :    and  the 

Duchess  of has  immortalized  herself  by  her  liberality  on 

that  occasion,  and  by  the  handsome  compliment  she  addressed  to 
the  poet,  that  "if  it  afforded  him  any  satisfaction,  she  had  been 
more  than  paid,  by  her  pleasure  in  reading  the  '  Elegy  in  a 
Country  Church-yard.'  " 

Literally  and  truly,  one  cannot  get  on  well  in  the  world  without 
money.  To  be  in  want  of  it,  is  to  pass  through  life  with  little 
credit  or  pleasure ;  it  is  to  live  out  of  the  world,  or  to  be  despised 
if  you  come  into  it ;  it  is  not  to  be  sent  for  to  court,  or  asked  out 
to  dinner,  or  noticed  in  the  street ;  it  is  not  to  have  your  opinion 
consulted,  or  else  rejected  with  contempt,  to  have  your  acquire- 
ments carped  at  and  doubted,  your  good  things  disparaged,  and  at 
last  to  lose  the  wit  and  the  spirit  to  say  them ;  it  is  to  be  scruti- 
nized by  strangers,  and  neglected  by  friends  ;  it  is  to  be  a  thrall  to 
circumstances,  an  exile  in  one's  own  country ;  to  forego  leisure, 
freedom,  ease  of  body  and  mind,  to  be  dependent  on  the  good-will 
and  caprice  of  others,  or  earn  a  precarious  and  irksome  livelihood 
by  some  laborious  employment ;  it  is  to  be  compelled  to  stand  be- 
hind a  counter,  or  to  sit  at  a  desk  in  some  public  office,  or  to  marry 
your  landlady,  or  not  the  person  you  wish  ;  or  to  go  out  to  the 


OIS   THE  WANT  OF  MONEY.  21 

East  or  West-Indies,  or  to  get  a  situation  as  judge  abroad,  and 
return  home  with  a  liver-complaint ;  or  to  be  a  law  stationer,  or  a 
scrivener  or  scavenger,  or  newspaper  reporter ;  or  to  read  law 
and  sit  in  court  without  a  brief;  or  to  be  deprived  of  the  use  of 
your  fingers  by  transcribing  Creek  manuscripts,  or  to  be  a  seal- 
engraver  and  pore  yourself  blind  ;  or  to  go  upon  the  stage,  or  try 
some  of  the  Fine  Arts ;  with  all  your  pains,  anxiety,  and  hopes, 
most  probably  to  fail,  or,  if  you  succeed,  after  the  exertions  of 
years,  and  undergoing  constant  distress  of  mind  and  fortune,  to  be 
assailed  on  every  side  with  envy,  back-biting,  and  falsehood,  or  to 
be  a  favorite  with  the  public  for  a  while,  and  then  thrown  into  the 
back-ground — or  a  gaol,  by  the  fickleness  of  taste  and  some  new 
favorite — to  be  full  of  enthusiasm  and  extravagance  in  youth,  of 
chagrin  and  disappointment  in  after-life ;  to  be  jostled  by  the 
rabble  because  you  do  not  ride  in  your  coach,  or  avoided  by  those 
who  know  your  worth,  and  shrink  from  it  as  a  claim  on  their  res- 
pect or  their  purse  ;  to  be  a  burden  to  your  relations,  or  unable  to 
do  anything  for  them  ;  to  be  ashamed  to  venture  into  crowds  ;  to 
have  cold  comfort  at  home  ;  to  lose  by  degrees  your  confidence 
and  any  talent  you  might  possess ;  to  grow  crabbed,  morose,  and 
querulous,  dissatisfied  with  every  one,  but  most  so  with  yourself; 
and  plagued  out  of  your  life,  to  look  about  for  a  plade  to  die  in, 
and  quit  the  world  without  any  one's  asking  after  your  will.  The 
wiseacres-  will  possibly,  however,  crowd  round  your  coffin,  and 
raise  a  monument  at  a  considerable  expense,  and  after  a  lapse  of 
„ime,  to  commemorate  your  genius  and  your  misfortunes  ! 

The  only  reason  why  I  am  disposed  to  envy  the  professions  of 
the  church  or  army  is,  that  men  can  afford  to  be  poor  in  them 
without  being  subjected  to  insult.  A  girl  with  a  handsome  fortune 
in  a  country  town  may  marry  a  poor  lieutenant  without  degrading 
herself.  An  officer  is  always  a  gentleman  ;  a  clergyman  some- 
thing more.  Echard's  book  '  On  the  Contempt  of  the  Clergy'  is 
unfounded.  It  is  surely  sufficient  for  any  set  of  individuals, 
raised  above  actual  want,  that  their  characters  are  not  merely 
respectable,  but  sacred.  Poverty,  when  it  is  voluntary,  is  never 
despicable,  but  takes  an  heroical  aspect.  What  are  the  begging 
friars  ?  Have  they  not  put  their  base  feet  upon  the  necks  of 
princes  ?     Money  as  a  luxury  is  valuable  only  as  a  passport  to 


22  TABLE  TALK. 


respect.  It  is  one  instrument  of  power.  Where  there  are  other 
admitted  and  ostensible  claims  to  this,  it  becomes  superfluous,  and 
the  neglect  of  it  is  even  admired  and  looked  up  to  as  a  mark  of 
superiority  over  it.  Even  a  strolling  beggar  is  a  popular  charac- 
ter, who  makes  an  open  profession  of  his  craft  and  calling,  and 
who  is  neither  worth  a  doit,  nor  in  want  of  one.  The  Scotch  are 
proverbially  poor  and  proud  :  we  know  they  can  remedy  their 
poverty  when  they  set  about  it.  No  one  is  sorry  for  them.  The 
French  emigrants  were  formerly  peculiarly  situated  in  England. 
The  priests  were  obnoxious  to  the  common  people  on  account  of 
their  religion  ;  both  they  and  the  nobles,  for  their  politics.  Their 
poverty  and  dirt  subjected  them  to  many  rebuffs  ;  but  their  pri- 
vations being  voluntarily  incurred,  and  also  borne  with  the  cha- 
racteristic patience  and  good-humor  of  the  nation,  screened  them 
from  contempt.  I  little  thought,  when  I  used  to  meet  them,  walk- 
ing out  in  the  summer's-evenings,  at  Somers'  Town,  in  their  long 
great  coats,  their  beards  covered  with  snuff,  and  their  eyes  gleam- 
ing with  mingled  hope  and  regret  in  the  rays  of  the  setting  sun, 
and  regarded  them  with  pity  bordering  on  respect,  as  the  last 
filmy  vestige  of  the  ancien  regime,  as  shadows  of  loyalty  and 
superstition  still  flitting  about  the  earth  and  shortly  to  disappear 
from  it  for'ever,  that  they  would  one  day  return  over  the  bleeding 
corpse  of  their  country,  and  sit  like  harpies,  a  polluted  triumph, 
over  the  tomb  of  human  liberty  !  To  be  a  lord,  a  papist,  and 
poor,  is  perhaps  to  some  temperaments  a  consummation  devoutly 
to  be  wished.  There  is  all  the  subdued  splendor  of  external  rank, 
the  pride  of  self-opinion,  irritated  and  goaded  on  by  petty  priva- 
tions and  vulgar  obloquy  to  a  degree  of  morbid  acuteness.  Pri- 
vate and  public  annoyances  must  perpetually  remind  him  of  what 
he  is,  of  what  his  ancestors  were  (a  circumstance  which  might 
otherwise  be  forgotten)  ;  must  narrow  the  circle  of  conscious  dig- 
nity more  and  more,  and  the  sense  of  personal  worth  and  preten- 
sion must  be  exalted  by  habit  and  contrast  into  a  refined  abstrac- 
tion— lt  pure  in  the  last  recesses  of  the  mind  " — unmixed  with,  or 
alloyed  by  "  baser  matter  ! "  — It  was  an  hypothesis  of  the  late 
Mr.  Thomas  Wedgewood,  that  there  is  a  principle  of  compensation 
in  the  human  mind  which  equalizes  all  situations,  and  by  which 
the  absence  of  anything  only  gives  us  a  more  intense  and  intimate 


ON  THE  WANT  OF  MONEY.  23 

perception  of  the  reality  ;  that  insult  adds  to  pride,  that  pain  looks 
forward  with  ease  to  delight,  that  hunger  already  enjoys  the  un- 
savory morsel  that  is  to  save  it  from  perishing ;  that  want  is  sur- 
rounded with  imaginary  riches,  like  the  poor  poet  in  Hogarth,  who 
has  a  map  of  the  mines  of  Peru  hanging  on  his  garret  walls ;  in 
short,  that  "  we  can  hold  a  fire  in  our  hand  by  thinking  on  the 
frosty  Caucasus  " — but  this  hypothesis,  though  ingenious  and  to  a 
certain  point  true,  is  to  be  admitted  only  in  a  limited  and  qualified 
sense, 

There  are  two  classes  of  people  that  I  have  observed  who  are 
not  so  distinct  as  might  be  imagined — those  who  cannot  keep  their 
own  money  in  their  hands,  and  those  who  cannot  keep  their  hands 
from  other  people's.  The  first  are  always  in  want  of  money, 
though  they  do  not  know  what  they  do  with  it.  They  muddle  it 
away,  without  method  or  object,  and  without  having  anything  to 
show  for  it.  They  have  not,  for  instance,  a  fine  house,  but  they 
hire  two  houses  at  a  time  ;  they  have  not  a  hot-house  in  their 
garden,  but  a  shrubbery  within  doors ;  they  do  not  gamble,  but 
they  purchase  a  library,  and  dispose  of  it  when  they  move  house.  A 
princely  benefactor  provides  them  with  lodgings,  where,  for  a  time, 
you  are  sure  to  find  them  at  home :  and  they  furnish  them  in  a 
handsome  style  for  those  who  are  to  come  after  them.  With  all 
this  sieve-like  economy,  they  can  only  afford  a  leg  of  mutton  and 
a  single  bottle  of  wine,  and  are  glad  to  get  a  lift  in  a  common  stage ; 
whereas,  wrth  a  little  management,  and  the  same  disbursements, 
they  might  entertain  a  round  of  company  and  drive  a  smart 
tilbury.  But  they  set  no  value  upon  money,  and  throw  it  away 
on  any  object  or  in  any  manner  that  first  presents  itself,  merely  to 
have  it  off  their  hands,  so  that  you  wonder  what  has  become  of  it. 
The  second  class  above  spoken  of  not  only  make  away  with  what 
belongs  to  themselves,  but  you  cannot  keep  anything  you  have 
from  their  rapacious  grasp.  If  you  refuse  to  lend  them  what  you 
want,  they  insist  that  you  must :  if  you  let  them  have  anything  to 
take  charge  of  for  a  time  (a  print  or  a  bust)  they  swear  that  you 
have  given  it  them,  and  that  they  have  too  great  a  regard  for  the 
donor  ever  to  part  with  it.  You  express  surprise  at  their  having 
run  so  largely  in  debt ;  but  where  is  the  singularity  while  others 
continue  to  lend  ?     And  how  is  this  to  be  helped,  when  the  manner 


24  TABLE  TALK. 


of  these  sturdy  beggars  amounts  to  dragooning  you  out  of  youi 
money,  and  they  will  not  go  away  without  your  purse,  any  more 
than  if  they  came  with  a  pistol  in  their  hand  ?  If  a  person  has 
no  delicacy,  he  has  you  in  his  power,  for  you  necessarily  feel  some 
towards  him  ;  and  since  he  will  take  no  denial,  you  must  comply 
with  his  peremptory  demands,  or  send  for  a  constable,  which  out 
of  respect  for  his  character  you  will  not  do.  These  persons  are 
also  poor — light  come,  light  go — and  the  bubbles  burst  at  last.  Yet 
if  they  had  employed  the  same  time  and  pains  in  any  laudable 
art  or  study  that  they  have  in  raising  a  surreptitious  livelihood, 
they  would  have  been  respectable,  if  not  rich.  It  is  their  facility 
in  borrowing  money  that  has  ruined  them.  No  one  will  set  heartily 
to  work,  who  has  the  face  to  enter  a  strange  house,  ask  the  master 
of  it  for  a  considerable  loan,  on  some  plausible  and  pompous  pre- 
text, and  walk  off  with  it  in  his  pocket.  You  might  as  well  suspect 
a  highwayman  of  addicting  himself  to  hard  study  in  the  intervals 
of  his  profession. 

There  is  only  one  other  class  of  persons  I  can  think  of,  in  con- 
nection with  the  subject  of  this  Essay — those  who  are  always  in 
the  want  of  money  from  the  want  of  spirit  to  make  use  of  it.  Such 
persons  are  perhaps  more  to  be  pitied  than  all  the  rest.  They  live 
in  want  in  the  midst  of  plenty — dare  not  touch  what  belongs  to 
them,  are  afraid  to  say  that  their  soul  is  their  own,  have  their  wealth 
locked  up  from  them  by  fear  and  meanness  as  effectually  as  by 
bolts  and  bars,  scarcely  allowing  themselves  a  coat  t&  their  backs 
or  a  morsel  to  eat,  are  in  dread  of  coming  to  the  parish  all  their 
lives,  and  are  not  sorry  when  they  die,  to  think  that  they  shall  no 
longer  be  an  expense  to  themselves — according  to  the  old 
epigram : 


"  Here  lies  Father  Clarges, 
Who  died  to  save  charges/ 


ON  SITTING  FOR  ONE'S  PICTURE.  85 


ESSAY  III. 

On  Sitting  for  One's  Picture. 

There  is  a  pleasure  in  sitting  for  one's  picture,  which  many- 
persons  are  not  aware  of.  People  are  coy  on  this  subject  at  first, 
coquet  with  it,  and  pretend  not  to  like  it,  as  is  the  case  w'th  other 
venial  indulgences,  but  they  soon  get  over  their  scruples,  and  be- 
come resigned  to  their  fate.  There  is  a  conscious  vanity  in  it ; 
and  vanity  is  the  aurum  poiabiie  in  ail  our  pleasures,  the  true 
elixir  of  human  life.  The  sitter  at  first  affects  an  air  of  indif- 
ference, throws  himself  into  a  slovenly  or  awkward  position,  like 
a  clown  when  he  goes  a  courting  for  the  first  time,  but  gradually 
recovers  himself,  attempts  an  attitude,  and  calls  up  his  best  looks, 
the  moment  he  receives  intimation  that  there  is  something  about 
him  that  will  do  for  a  picture.  The  beggar  in  the  street  is  proud 
to  have  his  picture  painted,  and  would  almost  sit  for  nothing  :'the 
finest  lady  in  the  land  is  as  fond  of  sitting  to  a  favorite  artist  as 
of  seating  herself  before  her  looking-glass ;  and  the  more  so,  as 
the  glass  in  this  case  is  sensible  of  her  charms,  and  does  all  it  can 
to  fix  or  heighten  them.  Kings  lay  aside  their  crowns  to  sit  for 
their  portraits,  and  poets  their  laurels  to  sit  for  their  busts  !  I  am 
sure,  my  father  had  as  little  vanity,  and  as  little  love  for  the  art 
as  most  persons :  yet  when  he  had  sat  to  me  a  few  times  (now 
some  twenty  years  ago),  he  grew  evidently  uneasy  when  it  was  a 
fine  day,  that  is,  when  the  sun  shone  into  the  room,  so  that  we 
could  not  paint ;  and  when  it  became  cloudy,  began  to  bustle 
about,  and  ask  me  if  I  was  not  getting  ready.  Poor  old  room  ! 
Does  the  sun  stdl  shine  into  thee,  or  does  Hope  fling  its  colors 
round  thy  walls,  gaudier  than  the  rainbow  ?  No,  never,  while 
thy  oak-panels  endure,  will  they  inclose  such  fine  movements  of 
the  brain  as  passed  through  mine,  when  the  fresh  hues  of  nature 
gleamed  from  the  canvas,  and  my  heart  silently  breathed  the 
names  of  Rembrandt  and  Correggio !     Between  my  father's  lov« 


TABLE  TALK. 


of  sittirg  and  mine  of  painting,  we  hit  upon  a  tolerable  likeness 
at  last ;  but  the  picture  is  cracked  and  gone ;  and  Megilp  (that 
nane  of  the  English  school)  has  destroyed  as  fine  an  old  Noncon- 
formist head  as  one  could  hope  to  see  in  these  degenerate  times. 

The  fact  is,  that  the  having  one's  picture  painted  is  like  the 
creation  of  another  self;  and  that  is  an  idea,  of  the  repetition  or 
reduplication  of  which  no  man  is  ever  tired,  to  the  thousandth 
reflection.  It  has  been  said  that  lovers  are  never  tired  of  each 
other's  company,  because  they  are  always  talking  of  themselves. 
This  seems  to  be  a  bond  of  connexion  (a  delicate  one  it  is  !)  be- 
tween the  painter  and  the  sitter — they  are  always  thinking  and 
talking  of  the  same  thing,  the  picture,  in  which  their  self-love 
finds  an  equal  counterpart.  There  Is  always  something  to  be 
done  or  altered,  that  touches  that  sensitive  cord — this  feature  was 
not  exactly  hit  off,  something  is  wanting  to  the  nose  or  to  the  eye- 
brows, it  may  perhaps  be  as  well  to  leave  out  this  mark  or  that 
blemish,  if  it  were  possible  to  recal  an  expression  that  was  re- 
marked a  short  time  before,  it  would  be  an  indescribable  advan- 
tage to  the  picture — a  squint  or  a  pimple  on  the  face  handsomely 
avoided  may  be  a  link  of  attachment  ever  after.  He  is  no  mean 
friend  who  conceals  from  ourselves,  or  only  gently  indicates,  our 
obvious  defects  to  the  world.  The  sitter,  by  his  repeated,  minute, 
Jidgetty,  inquiries  about  himself  may  be  supposed  to  take  an  indi- 
rect and  laudable  method  of  arriving  at  self-knowledge  ;  and  the 
artist,  in  self-defence,  is  obliged  to  cultivate  a  scrupulous  tender- 
ness towards  the  feelings  of  his  sitter,  lest  he  should  appear  in  the 
character  of  a  spy  upon  him.  I  do  not  conceive  there  is  a  stronger 
call  upon  secret  gratitude  than  the  having  made  a  favorable  like- 
ness of  any  one  ;  nor  a  surer  ground  of  jealousy  and  dislike  than 
the  having  failed  in  the  attempt.  A  satire  or  a  lampoon  in  writ- 
ing is  bad  enough  ;  but  here  we  look  doubly  foolish,  for  we  are 
ourselves  parties  to  the  plot,  and  have  been  at  considerable  pains 
to  give  evidence  against  ourselves.  I  have  never  had  a  plaster 
cast  taken  of  myself:  in  truth,  I  rather  shrink  from  the  experi- 
ment ;  for  I  know  I  should  be  very  much  mortified  if  it  did  not 
turn  out  well,  and  should  never  forgive  the  unfortunate  artist 
who  had  lent  his  assistance  to  prove  that  I  looked  like  a  block- 
head ! 


ON  SIT  TING  FOR  ONE'S  PICTURE.  27 

The  late  Mr.  Opie  used  to  remark  that  the  most  sensible  people 
made  the  best  sitters ;  and  I  incline  to  his  opinion,  especially  as  I 
myself  am  an  excellent  sitter.  Indeed,  it  seems  to  me  a  piece  of 
mere  impertinence  not  to  sit  as  still  as  one  can  in  these  cir- 
cumstances. I  put  the  best  face  I  can  upon  the  matter,  as  well 
out  of  respect  to  the  artist  as  to  myself.  I  appear  on  my  trial  in 
the  court  of  physiognomy,  and  am  as  anxious  to  make  good  a 
certain  idea  I  have  of  myself,  as  if  I  were  playing  a  part  on  a 
stage.  I  have  no  notion  how  people  go  to  sleep,  who  are  sitting 
for  their  pictures.  It  is  an  evident  sign  of  want  of  thought  and 
of  internal  resources.  There  are  some  individuals,  all  whose 
ideas  are  in  their  hands  and  feet — make  them  sit  still,  and  you 
put  a  stop  to  the  machine  altogether.  The  volatile  spirit  of 
quicksilver  in  them  turns  to  a  caput  mortuum.  Children  are  par- 
ticularly sensible  of  this  constraint  from  their  thoughtlessness  and 
liveliness.  It  is  the  next  thing  with  them  to  wearing  the  fool's- 
cap  at  school :  yet  they  are  proud  of  having  their  pictures  taken, 
ask  when  they  are  to  sit  again,  and  are  mightily  pleased  when 
they  are  done.  Charles  the  First's  children  seem  to  have  been 
good  sitters,  and  the  great  dog  sits  like  a  Lord  Chancellor. 

The  second  time  a  person  sits,  and  the  view  of  the  features  is 
determined,  the  head  seems  fastened  in  an  imaginary  vice,  and  he 
can  hardly  tell  what  to  make  of  his  situation.  He  is  continually 
overstepping  the  bounds  of  duty,  and  is  tied  down  to  certain  lines 
and  limits  chalked  out  upon  the  canvas,  to  him  "  invisible  or 
dimly  seen  "  on  the  throne  where  he  is  exalted.  The  painter  has 
now  a  difficult  task  to  manage — to  throw  in  his  gentle  admoni- 
tions, "  A  little  more  this  way,  sir,"  or  "  You  bend  rather  too 
forward,  madam," — and  ought  to  have  a  delicate  white  hand,  that 
he  may  venture  to  adjust  a  straggling  lock  of  hair,  or  by  giving  a 
slight  turn  to  the  head,  co-operate  in  the  practical  attainment  of  a 
position.  These  are  the  ticklish  and  tiresome  places  of  the  work, 
before  much  progress  is  made,  where  the  sitter  grows  peevish  and 
abstracted,  and  the  painter  more  anxious  and  particular  than  he 
was  the  day  before.  Now  is  the  time  to  fling  in  a  few  adroit  com- 
pliments, or  to  introduce  general  topics  of  conversation.  The 
artist  ought  to  be  a  well-informed  and  agreeable  man — able  to  ex- 
patiate on  his  art,  and  abounding  in  lively  and  characteristic  ane<;- 

19 


28  TABLE  TALK 


dotes.  Yet  he  ought  not  to  talk  too  much,  or  to  grow  too  animated ; 
or  the  picture  is  apt  to  staud  still,  and  the  sitter  to  be  aware  of  it. 
Accordingly,  the  best  talkers  in  the  profession  have  not  always 
been  the  most  successful  portrait-painters.  For  this  purpose  it  is 
desirable  to  bring  a  friend,  who  may  relieve  guard,  or  fill  up  the 
pauses  of  conversation,  occasioned  by  the  necessary  attention  of 
the  painter  to  his  business,  and  by  the  involuntary  reveries  of  the 
sitter  on  what  his  own  likeness  will  bring  forth ;  or  a  book,  a  news- 
paper, or  a  portfolio  of  prints  may  serve  to  amuse  the  time.  When 
the  sitter's  face  begins  to  flag,  the  artist  may  theti  properly  start 
a  fresh  topic  of  discourse,  and  while  his  attention  is  fixed  on  the 
graces  called  out  by  the  varying  interest  of  the  subject,  and  the 
model  anticipates,  pleased  and  smiling,  their  being  transferred 
every  moment  to  the  canvas,  nothing  is  wanting  to  improve  and 
cany  to  its  height  the  amicable  understanding  and  mutual  satis- 
faction and  good-will  subsisting  between  these  two  persons,  so 
happily  occupied  with  each  other  ! 

Sir  Joshua  must  have  had  a  fine  time  of  it  with  his  sitters. 
Lords,  ladies,  generals,  authors,  opera-singers,  musicians,  the 
learned  and  the  polite,  besieged  his  doors,  and  found  an  unfailing 
w  elcome.  What  a  rustling  of  silk  !  What  a  fluttering  of  floun- 
ces and  brocades  !  What  a  cloud  of  powder  and  perfumes  ! 
What  a  flow  of  periwigs  !  What  an  exchange  of  civilities  and  of 
titles  !  What  a  recognition  of  old  friendships,  and  an  introduc- 
tion of  new  acquaintance  and  sitters  !  It  must,  I  think,  be  al- 
lowed that  this  is  the  only  mode  in  which  genius  can  form  a 
legitimate  union  with  wealth  and  fashion.  There  is  a  secret  and 
sufficient  tie  in  interest  and  vanity.  Abstract  topics  of  wit  or 
learning  do  not  furnish  a  connecting  link :  but  the  painter,  the 
sculptor,  come  in  close  contact  with  the  persons  of  the  Great. 
The  lady  of  quality,  the  courtier,  and  the  artist,  meet  and  shake 
hands  on  this  common  ground  ;  the  latter  exercises  a  sort  of  natu- 
ral jurisdiction  and  dictatorial  power  over  the  pretensions  of  the 
first  to  external  beauty  and  accomplishment,  which  produces  a 
mild  sense  and  lone _of  equality  ;  and  the  opulent  sitter  pays  the 
taker  of  flattering  likenesses  handsomely  for  his  trouble,  which 
does  not  lessen  the  sympathy  between  them.  There  is  even  a 
satisfaction  in  paying  down  a  high  price  for  a  picture — it  seems 


ON  SITTING  FOR  ONE'S  PICTURE.  29 

as  if  one's  head  was  worth  something  ! — During  the  first  sitting, 
Sir  Joshua  did  little  hut  chat  with  the  new  candidate  for  the  fame 
of  portraiture,  try  an  attitude,  or  remark  an  expression.  His  ob- 
ject was  to  gain  time,  by  not  being  in  haste  to  commit  himself, 
until  he  was  master  of  the  subject  before  him.  No  one  ever 
dropped  in  but  the  friends  and  acquaintance  of  the  sitter — it  was 
a  rule  with  Sir  Joshua  that  from  the  moment  the  latter  entered, 
he  was  at  home — the  room  belonged  to  him — but  what  secret 
whisperings  would  there  be  among  these,  what  confidential,  inau- 
dible communications  !  It  must  be  a  refreshing  moment,  when 
the  cake  and  wine  had  been  handed  round,  and  the  artist  began 
again.  He,  as  it  were,  by  this  act  of  hospitality  assumed  a  new 
character,  and  acquired  a  double  claim  to  confidence  and  respect. 
In  the  mean  time,  the  sitter  would  perhaps  glance  his  eye  round 
the  room,  and  see  a  Titian  or  a  Vandyke  hanging  in  one  corner, 
with  a  transient  feeling  of  scepticism  whether  he  should  make 
such  a  picture.  How  the  ladies  of  quality  and  fashion  must  bless 
themselves  from  being  made  to  look  like  Dr.  Johnson  or  Gold- 
smith !  How  proud  the  first  of  these  would  be,  how  happy  the 
last,  to  fill  the  same  arm-chair  where  the  Bunburys  and  the 
Hornecks  had  sat !  How  superior  the  painter  would  feel  to  them 
all  !  By  "happy  alchemy  of  mind,"  he  brought  out  all  their 
good  qualities  and  reconciled  their  defects,  gave  an  air  of  studi- 
ous ease  to  his  learned  friends,  or  lighted  up  the  face  of  folly  and 
fashion  with  intelligence  and  graceful  smiles.  Those  portraits, 
however,  that  were  most  admired  at  the  time,  do  not  retain  their 
pre-eminence  now  :  the  thought  remains  upon  the  brow,  while 
the  color  has  faded  from  the  cheek,  or  the  dress  grown  obsolete  ; 
and  after  all,  Sir  Joshua's  best  pictures  are  those  of  his  worst 
sitters — to  Children.  They  suited  best  with  his  unfinished  style  ; 
and  are  like  the  infancy  of  the  art  itself,  happy,  bold,  and  care- 
less. Sir  Joshua  formed  the  ch'cle  of  his  private  friends  from  the 
elite  of  his  sitters ;  and  Vandyke  was,  it  appears,  on  the  same 
footing  with  his.  When  any  of  those  noble  or  distinguished  per- 
sons whom  he  has  immortalised  with  his  pencil,  were  sitting  to 
him.  he  used  to  ask  them  to  dinner,  and  afterwards  it  was  their 
custom  to  return  to  the  picture  again,  so  that  it  is  said  that  many 
of  his  finest  portraits  were  done  in  this  manner,  ere  the  colors 


30  TABLE  TALK. 


were  yet  dry,  in  the  course  of  a  single  day.  Oh  !  ephemeral 
works  to  last  for  ever  ! 

Vandyke  married  a  daughter  of  Earl  Cowper,  ot  whom  there 
is  a  very  beautiful  picture.     She  was  the  CEnone,  and  he  his  own 

Paris.     A  painter  of  the  name  of  Astley  married  a  Lady , 

who  sat  to  him  tor  her  picture.  He  was  a  wretched  hand,  but  a 
fine  person  of  a  man,  and  a  great  coxcomb  ;  and  on  his  strutting 
up  and  down  before  the  portrait  when  it  was  done  with  a  pro- 
digious air  of  satisfaction,  she  observed,  "  If  he  was  so  pleased 
with  the  copy,  he  might  have  the  original."  This  Astley  was  a 
person  of  magnificent  habits  and  a  sumptuous  taste  in  living  ; 
and  is  the  same  of  whom  the  anecdote  is  recorded,  that  when 
some  English  students  walking  out  near  Rome  were  compelled 
by  the  heat  to  strip  off  their  coats,  Astley  displayed  a  waistcoat 
with  a  huge  waterfall  streaming  down  the  back  of  it,  which  was 
a  piece  of  one  of  his  own  canvases  that  he  had  converted  to  this 
purpose.  Sir  Joshua  fell  in  love  with  one  of  his  fair  sitters,  a 
young  and  beautiful  girl,  who  ran  out  one  day  in  a  great  panic 
and  confusion,  hid  her  face  in  her  companion's  lap  who  was  read- 
ing in  an  outer  room,  and  said,  "  Sir  Joshua  had  made  her  an 
offer !"  This  circumstance  perhaps  deserves  mentioning  the 
more,  because  there  is  a  general  idea  that  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds 
was  a  confirmed  old  bachelor.  Goldsmith  conceived  a  fruitless 
attachment  to  the  same  person,  and  addressed  some  passionate 
letters  to  her.  Alas  !  it  is  the  fate  of  genius  to  admire  and  to 
celebrate  beauty,  not  to  enjoy  it !  It  is  a  fate,  perhaps  not  with- 
out its  compensations — 

"  Had  Petrarch  gained  his  Laura  for  a  wife, 
Would  he  have  written  Sonnets  all  his  life  ?" 

This  distinguished  beauty  is  still  living,  and  handsomer  than  Sir 
Joshua's  picture  of  her  when  a  girl  ;  and  inveighs  against  the  free- 
dom of  Lord  Byron's  pen  with  all  the  charming  prudery  of  the 
last  age.* 

*  Sir  Joshua  may  be  thought  to  have  studied  the  composition  of  his  fe- 
male portraits  very  coolly.  There  is  a  picture  of  his  remaining  of  a  Mrs. 
Symmons.who  appears  to  have  been  a  delicate  beauty,  pale,  with  a  very  little 
color  in  her  cheeks  :  but  then  to  set  off  this  want  of  complexion,  she  is 


ON  SITTING  FOR  ONE'S  PICTURE.  31 

The  relation  between  the  portrait-painter  and  his  amiable  sit. 
ters  is  one  of  established  custom  :  but  it  is  also  one  of  metaphysi- 
cal nicety,  and  is  a  running  double  entendre.  The  fixing  an  inqui- 
sitive gaze  on  beauty,  the  heightening  a  momentary  grace,  the 
dwelling  on  the  heaven  of  an  eye,  the  losing  one's-self  in  the  dim- 
ple of  a  chin,  is  a  dangerous  employment.  The  painter  may 
chance  to  slide  into  the  lover — the  lover  can  hardly  turn  painter. 
The  eye  indeed  grows  critical,  the  hand  is  busy  :  but  are  the 
senses  unmoved  ?  We  are  employed  to  transfer  living  charms 
to  an  inanimate  surface  ;  but  they  may  sink  into  the  heart  by  the 
way,  and  the  nerveless  hand  be  unable  to  carry  its  luscious  bur- 
then any  further.  St.  Preux  wonders  at  the  rash  mortal  who 
had  dared  to  trace  the  features  of  his  Julia  ;  and  accuses  him  of 
insensibility  without  reason.  Perhaps  he  too  had  an  enthusiasm 
and  pleasures  of  his  own  !  Mr.  Burke,  in  his  Sublime  and  Beau- 
tiful, has  left  a  description  of  what  he  terms  the  most  beautiful 
object  in  nature,  the  neck  of  a  lovely  and  innocent  female,  which 
is  written  very  much  as  if  he  had  himself  formerly  painted  this 
object,  and  sacrificed  at  this  formidable  shrine.  There  is  no 
doubt  that  the  perception  of  beauty  becomes  more  exquisite  ("till 
the  sense  aches  at  it  ")  by  being  studied  and  refined  upon  as  an 
object  of  art — it  is  at  the  same  time  fortunately  neutralised  by 
this  means,  or  the  painter  would  run  mad.  It  is  converted  into 
an  abstraction,  an  ideal  thing,  into  something  intermediate  between 
nature  and  art,  hovering  between  a  living  substance  and  a  sense- 
less shadow.  The  health  and  spirit  that  but  now  breathed  from 
a  speaking  face,  the  next  moment  breathe  with  almost  equal  effect 
from  a  dull  piece  of  canvas,  and  thus  distract  attention  :  the  eye 
sparkles,  the  lips  are  moist  there  too ;  and  if  we  can  fancy  the 
picture  alive,  the  face  in  its  turn  fades  into  a  picture,  a  mere  ob- 
ject of  sight.  We  take  rapturous  possession  with  one  sense,  the 
eye  ;  but  the  artist's  pencil  acts  as  a  non-conductor  to  the  grosser 
desires.  Besides,  the  sense  of  duty,  of  propriety  interferes.  It 
is  not  the  question  at  issue  :  we  have  other  work  on  our  hands, 
and  enough  to  do.     Love  is  the  product  of  ease  and  idleness  :  but 

painted  in  a  snow-white  satin  dress,  there  is  a  white  marble  pillar  near  her, 
n  white  cloud  over  her  head,  and  by  her  side  stands  one  white  lily. 


32  TABLE  TALK. 


the  painter  has  an  anxious,  feverish,  never-ending  task,  to  rival 
the  beauty,  to  which  he  dare  not  aspire  even  in  thought,  or  in  a 
dream  of  bliss.  Paints  and  brushes  are  not  "  amorous  toys  of 
light-winged  Cupid  ;"  a  rising  sigh  evaporates  in  the  aroma  of 
some  fine  oil-color  or  varnish,  a  kindling  blush  is  transfixed  in  a 
bed  of  vermilion  on  the  palette.  A  blue  vein  meandering  in  a 
white  wrist  invites  the  hand  to  touch  it :  but  it  is  better  to  pro- 
ceed, and  not  spoil  the  picture.  The  ambiguity  becomes  more 
striking  in  painting  from  the  naked  figure.  If  the  wonder  occa- 
sioned by  the  object  is  greater,  so  is  the  despair  of  rivalling  what 
we  see.  The  sense  of  responsibility  increases  with  the  hope  of 
creating  an  artificial  splendor  to  match  the  real  one.  The  dis- 
play of  unexpected  charms  foils  our  vanity,  and  mortifies  passion. 
The  paintmg  A  Diana  and  Nymphs  is  like  plunging  into  a  cold 
bath  of  desire  :  to  make  a  statue  of  a  Venus  transforms  the  sculp- 
tor himself  to  stone.  The  snow  on  the  lap  of  beauty  freezes  the 
soul.  The  heedless,  unsuspecting  licence  of  foreign  manners 
gives  the  artist  abroad  an  advantage  over  ours  at  home.  Sir 
Joshua  Reynolds  painted  only  the  head  of  Iphigene  from  a  beau- 
tiful woman  of  quality  :  Canova  had  innocent  girls  to  sit  to  him 
for  his  Graces.  The  Princess  Borghese,  whose  symmetry  of 
form  was  admirable,  sat  to  him  for  a  model,  which  he  considered 
as  his  master-piece  and  the  perfection  of  the  female  form  ;  and 
when  asked  if  she  did  not  feel  uncomfortable  while  it  was  taking, 
she  replied  with  great  indifference,  "  No  :  it  was  not  cold !"  I 
have  but  one  other  word  to  add  on  this  part  of  the  subject :  if 
having  to  paint  a  delicate  and  modest  female  is  a  temptation  to 
gallantry,  on  the  other  hand  the  sitting  to  a  lady  for  one's  picture 
is  a  still  more  trying  situation,  and  amounts  (almost  of  itself) 
to  a  declaration  of  love  ! 

Landscape-painting  is  free  from  these  tormenting  dilemmas  and 
embarrassments.  It  is  as  full  of  the  feeling  of  pastoral  sim- 
plicity and  ease,  as  portrait-painting  is  of  personal  vanity  and 
egotism.  Away  then  with  those  incumbrances  to  the  true 
liberty  of  thought — the  sitter's  chair,  the  bag-wig  and  sword, 
the  drapery,  the  lay  figure — and  let  us  to  some  retired  spot 
in  the  country,  take  out  our  portfolio,  plant  our  easel,  and 
begin.     We  are  all  at  once  shrouded  from  observation — 


ON  SITTING  FOR  ONE'S  PICTURE.  33 

'*  The  world  forgetting,  by  the  world  forgot '." 

Me  enjoy  the  cool  shade  with  solitude  and  silence  ;  or  hear 
the  dashing  waterfall, 

"  Or  stock-dove  plain  amid  the  forest  deep, 
That  drowsy  rustles  to  the  sighing  gale." 

Il  seems  almost  a  shame  to  do  anything,  we  are  so  well  con- 
tent without  it ;  but  the  eye  is  restless,  and  we  must  have 
something  to  show  when  we  get  home.  We  set  to  work,  and 
failure  or  success  prompts  us  to  go  on.  We  take  up  the  pen- 
cil, or  .ay  it  down  again,  as  we  please.  We  muse  or  paint, 
as  objects  strike  our  senses  or  our  reflection.  The  perfect  leis- 
ure we  feel  turns  labor  to  a  luxury.  We  try  to  imitate  the 
grey  color  of  a  rock  or  of  the  bark  of  a  tree :  the  breeze  wafted 
from  its  broad  foliage  gives  us  fresh  spirits  to  proceed,  we  dip 
our  pencil  in  the  sky,  or  ask  the  white  clouds  sailing  over  its 
bosom  to  sit  for  their  pictures.  We  are  in  no  hurry,  and  have 
the  day  before  us.  Or  else,  escaping  from  the  close-embowered 
scene,  we  catch  fading  distances  on  airy  downs,  and  seize  on 
golden  sunsets  with  the  fleecy  flocks  glittering  in  the  evening  ray, 
after  a  shower  of  rain  has  fallen.  Or  from  Norwood's  ridgy 
height,  survey  the  snake-like  Thames,  or  its  smoke-crowned 
capital ; 

"  Think  of  its  crimes,  its  cares,  its  pain, 
Then  shield  us  in  the  woods  again." 

No  one  thinks  of  disturbing  a  landscape-painter  at  his  task  : 
he  seems  a  kind  of  magician,  the  privileged  genius  of  the 
place.  Wherever  a  Claude,  a  Wilson  has  introduced  his  own 
portrait  in  the  foreground  of  a  picture,  we  look  at  it  with 
interest  (however  ill  it  may  be  done)  feeling  that  it  is  the  portrait 
of  one  who  was  quite  happy  at  the  time,  and  how  glad  we 
should  be  to  change  places  with  him. 

Mr.  Burke  has  brought  in  a  striking  episode  in  one  of  his  later 
works  in  allusion  to  Sir  Joshua's  portrait  of  Lord  Keppel,  with 
those  of  some  other  friends,  painted  in  their  better  days.  The 
portrait  is  indeed  a  fine  one,  worthy  of  the  artist  and  the  critic, 

SECOND    SERIES- -PART  I.  19 


TABLE  TALK. 


and  perhaps  recalls  Lord  Keppel's  memory  oftener  than  any  other 
circumstance  at  present  does.*  Portrait-painting  is  in  truth  a 
sort  of  cement  of  friendship,  and  a  clue  to  history.  That  block- 
head, Mr.  C****r,  of  the  Admiralty,  the  other  day  blundered  upon 
some  observations  of  mine  relating  to  this  subject,  and  made  the 
House'  stare  by  asserting  that  portrait-painting  was  history  or  his- 
tory portrait,  as  it  happened ;  but  went  on  to  add,  "  That  those 
gentlemen  who  had  seen  the  ancient  portraits  lately  exhibited  in 

*  "  No  man  lives  too  long,  who  lives  to  do  with  spirit,  and  suffer  with 
resignation,  what  Providence  pleases  to  command  or  inflict :  but  indeed  they 
are  sharp  incommodities  which  beset  old  age.  It  was  but  the  other  day, 
that  in  putting  in  order  some  things  which  had  been  brought  here  on  my 
taking  leave  of  London  for  ever,  I  looked  over  a  number  of  fine  portraits 
most  of  them  of  persons  now  dead,  but  whose  society,  in  my  better  days, 
made  this  a  proud  and  happy  place.  Amongst  these  was  the  picture  of 
Lord  Keppel.  It  was  painted  by  an  artist  worthy  of  the  subject,  the  ex- 
cellent friend  of  that  excellent  man  from  their  earliest  youth,  and  a  com- 
mon friend  of  us  both,  with  whom  we  lived  for  many  years  without  a  mo- 
ment of  coldness,  of  peevishness,  of  jealousy,  or  of  jar,  to  the  day  of  our 
final  separation. 

"  I  ever  looked  on  Lord  Keppel  as  one  of  the  greatest  and  best  men  of 
his  age ;  and  I  loved  and  cultivated  him  accordingly.  He  was  much  in  my 
heart,  and  I  believe  I  was  in  his  to  the  very  last  beat.  It  was  after  his  trial 
at  Portsmouth  that  he  gave  me  this  picture.  With  what  zeal  and  anxious 
jffection  I  attended  him  through  that  his  agony  of  glory ;  what  part,  my 
son,  in  early  flush  and  enthusiasm  of  his  virtue  and  the  pious  passion  with 
which  he  attached  himself  to  all  my  connexions,  with  what  prodigality  we 
both  squandered  ourselves  in  courting  almost  every  sort  of  enmity  for  his 
sake,  I  believe  he  felt,  just  as  I  should  have  felt,  such  friendship  on  such 
an  occasion." — Letters  to'  a  Noble  Lord,  p.  29,  second  edition,  printed  by 
T.  Williams. 

I  have  given  this  passage  entire  here,  because  I  wish  to  be  informed,  if  I 
:ould,  what  is  the  construction  of  the  last  sentence  of  it.  It  has  puzzled 
me  all  my  life.  One  difficulty  might  be  got  over  by  making  a  pause  after 
"  I  believe  he  felt,"  and  leaving  out  the  comma  between  "  have  felt"  and 
"such  friendship,"  That  is,  the  meaning  would  be,  "I  believe  he  felt 
with  what  zeal  and  anxious  affection,"  &c,  "just  as  I  should  have  felt  such 
friendship  on  such  an  occasion."  But  then  again,  what  is  to  become  of  the 
"  what  part,  my  son  ?"  &c.  With  what  does  this  connect,  or  to  what  verb 
is  "  my  son"  the  nominative  case,  or  by  what  verb  is  "  what  part"  governed  ? 
I  should  really  be  glad,  if,  from  any  manuscript,  printed  copy,  or  marginal 
correction,  this  point  could  be  cleared  up,  and  so  fine  a  passage  resolved, 
b/any  possible  ellipsis,  into  ordinary  grammar. 


ON  SITTING  FOR  ONE'S  PICTURE.  35 

Pall-mall,  must  have  been  satisfied  that  they  were  strictly  histori- 
cal j"  which  showed  that  he  knew  nothing  at  all  of  the  matter, 
but  merely  talked  by  rote.  There  was  nothing  historical  in  the 
generality  of  those  portraits,  except  that  they  were  portraits  of 
people  mentioned  in  history — there  was  no  more  of  the  spirit  of' 
history  in  them  (which  is  passion  or  action)  than  in  their  dresses. 
But  this  is  the  way  in  which  that  person,  by  his  pettifogging  ha- 
bits and  literal  understanding,  always  mistakes  a  verbal  truism 
for  sense,  and  a  misnomer  for  wit !  I  was  going  to  observe,  iiiat 
I  think  the  aiding  the  recollection  of  our  family  and  friends  in 
our  absence  may  be  a  frequent  and  strong  inducement  in  sitting 
for  our  pictures  ;  but  that  I  believe  the  love  of  posthumous  fame, 
or  of  continuing  our  memories  after  we  are  dead,  has  very  little 
to  do  with  it.  And  one  reason  I  should  give  for  that  opinion  is 
this,  that  we  are  not  naturally  very  prone  to  dwell  with  pleasure 
on  anything  that  may  happen  in  relation  to  us  after  we  are  dead, 
because  we  are  not  fond  of  thinking  of  death  at  all.  We  shrink 
equally  from  the  prospect  of  that  fatal  event  as  from  any  specu- 
lation on  its  consequenees.  The  surviving  ourselves  in  our  pictures 
is  but  a  poor  compensation — it  is  rather  adding  mockery  to  cala- 
mity. The  perpetuating  our  names  in  the  wide  page  of  history 
or  to  a  remote  posterity  is  a  vague  calculation,  that  may  take 
out  the  immediate  sting  of  mortality — whereas  we  ourselves  may 
hope  to  last  (by  a  fortunate  extension  of  the  term  of  human  life) 
almost  as  long  as  an  ordinary  portrait ;  and  the  wounds  of  Ite- 
rated friendship  it  heals  must  be  still  green,  and  our  ashes  scarcely 
cold.  I  think  therefore  that  the  looking  forward  to  this  mode  of 
keeping  alive  the  memory  of  what  we  were  by  lifeless  hues  and 
discolored  features,  is  not  among  the  most  approved  consolations 
of  human  life,  or  favorite  dalliances  of  the  imagination.  Yet  I 
own  I  should  like  some  part  of  me,  as  the  hair  or  even  nails,  to 
be  preserved  entire,  or  I  should  have  no  objection  to  lie  like  Whit- 
field in  a  state  of  petrifaction.  This  smacks  of  the  bodily  reality 
at  least — acts  like  a  deception  to  the  spectator,  and  breaks  the  fall 
from  this  "  warm,  kneaded  motion  to  a  clod" — from  that  to  no- 
thing— even  to  the  person  himself.  I  suspect  that  the  idea  of 
posthumous  fame,  which  has  so  unwelcome  a  condition  annexed 
to  it,  loses  its  general  relish  as  we  advance  in  life,  and  that  it  u 

19* 


TABLE  TALK. 


only  while  we  are  young  that  we  pamper  our  imaginations  with 
this  bait,  with  a  sort  of  impunity.  The  reversion  of  immortality 
is  then  so  distant,  that  we  may  talk  of  it  without  much  fear  of 
entering  upon  immediate  possession  :  death  is  itself  a  fable  — a 
sound  that  dies  upon  our  lips  ;  and  the  only  certainty  seems  the 
only  impossibility.  Fame,  at  that  romantic  period,  is  the  firsl 
thir.g  in  our  mouths,  and  death  the  last  in  our  thoughts. 


WHETHER  GENIUS  IS  CONSCIOUS  OF  ITS  POWERS?      37 


ESSAY  IV. 

Whether  genius  is  conscious  of  its  power* . 

No  really  great  man  ever  thought  himself  so.  The  idea  of 
greatness  in  the  mind  answers  but  ill  to  our  knowledge — or  to 
our  ignorance  of  ourselves.  What  living  prose-writer,  for  in- 
stance, would  think  of  comparing  himself  with  Burke  ?  Yet 
would  it  not  have  been  equal  presumption  or  egotism  in  him  to 
fancy  himself  equal  to  those  who  had  gone  before  him — Boling- 
broke  or  Johnson  or  Sir  William  Temple  ?  Because  his  rank  in 
letters  is  become  a  settled  point  with  us,  we  conclude  that  it  must 
nave  been  quite  as  self-evident  to  him,  and  that  he  must  have 
been  perfectly  conscious  of  his  vast  superiority  to  the  rest  of  the 
world.  Alas !  not  so.  No  man  is  truly  himself,  but  in  the  idea 
which  others  entertain  of  him.  The  mind,  as  well  as  the  eye, 
"  sees  not  itself,  but  by  reflection  from  some  other  thing."  What 
jrarity  can  there  be  between  the  effect  of  habitual  composition  on 
the  mind  of  the  individual,  and  the  surprise  occasioned  by  first 
reading  a  fine  passage  in  an  admired  author ;  between  what  we 
do  with  ease,  and  what  we  thought  it  next  to  impossible  ever 
to  be  done  ;  between  the  reverential  awe  we  have  for  years 
encouraged,  without  seeing  reason  to  alter  it,  for  distinguished 
genius,  and  the  slow,  reluctant,  unwelcome  conviction  that  after 
infinite  toil  and  repeated  disappointments,  and  when  it  is  too  late* 
and  to  little  purpose,  we  have  ourselves  at  length  accomplished 
what  we  at  first  proposed  ;  between  the  insignificance  of  oui 
petty,  peisonal  pretensions,  and  the  vastness  and  splendor  which 
the  atmosphere  of  imagination  lends  to  an  illustrious  name  ?  He 
who  comes  up  to  his  own  idea  of  greatness,  must  always  have 
had  a  very  low  standard  of  it  in  his  mind.  "  What  a  pity,"  said 
some  one,  "  that  Milton  h  id  not  the  pleasure  of  reading  Paradise 
Lost !"     He  could  not  read  it,  as  we  do,  with  the  weight  of  im- 


S8  TABLE  TALK. 


'  ression  that  a  hundred  years  of  admiration  have  added  to  it — 
"  a  phoenix  gazed  by  all  " — with  the  sense  of  the  number  of 
editions  it  has  passed  through  with  still  increasing  reputation, 
with  the  tone  of  solidity,  time-proof,  which  it  has  received  from 
the  breath  of  cold,  envious  maligners,  with  the  sound  which  the 
voice  of  Fame  has  lent  to  every  line  of  it !  The  writer  of  an 
ephemeral  production  may  be  as  much  dazzled  with  it  as  the 
public  ;  it  may  sparkle  in  his  own  eyes  for  a  moment,  and  be 
soon  forgotten  by  every  one  else.  But  no  one  can  anticipate  the 
suffrages  of  posterity.  Every  man,  in  judging  of  himself,  is  his 
own  contemporary.  He  may  feel  the  gale  of  popularity,  but  he 
cannot  tell  how  long  it  will  last.  His  opinion  of  himself  wants 
distance,  wants  time,  wants  numbers,  to  set  it  off  and  confirm  it. 
He  must  be  indifferent  to  his  own  merits,  before  he  can  feel  a  con- 
fidence in  them.  Besides,  every  one  must  be  sensible  of  a  thou- 
sand weaknesses  and  deficiencies  in  himself;  whereas  Genius 
only  leaves  behind  it  the  monuments  of  its  strength.  A  great 
name  is  an  abstraction  of  some  one  excellence  :  but  whoever  fan- 
cies himself  an  abstraction  of  excellence,  so  far  from  being  great, 
may  be  sure  that  he  is  a  blockhead,  equally  ignorant  of  excel- 
lence or  defect,  of  himself  or  others.  Mr.  Burke,  besides  being 
the  author  of  the  Reflections,  and  the  Letter  to  a  Noble  Lord,  had 
a  wife  and  son  ;  and  had  to  think  as  much  about  them  as  we  do 
about  him.  The  imagination  gains  nothing  by  the  minute  details 
of  personal  knowledge. 

On  the  other  hand,  it  may  be  said  that  no  man  knows  so  well 
as  the  author  of  any  performance  what  it  has  cost  him,  and  the 
length  of  time  and  study  devoted  to  it.  This  is  one,  among  other 
reasons,  why  no  man  can  pronounce  an  opinion  upon  himself. 
•  The  happiness  of  the  result  bears  no  proportion  to  the  difficulties 
overcome  or  the  pains  taken.  Materiam  superdbat  opus,  is  an 
old  and  fatal  complaint.  The  definition  of  genius  is  that  it  acts 
unconsciously ;  and  those  who  have  produced  immortal  works, 
nave  done  so  without  knowing  how  or  why.  The  greatest  power 
operates  unseen,  and  executes  its  appointed  task  with  as  little  os- 
tentation as  difficulty.  Whatever  is  done  best,  is  done  from  the 
natural  bent  and  disposition  of  the  mind.  It  is  only  where  our 
incapacity  begins,  that  we  begin  to  feel  the  obstacles,  and  to  sot 


WHETHER  GENIUS  IS  CONSCIOUS  OF  ITS  POWERS?      19 

an  undue  value  on  our  triumph  over  them.  Correggio,  Michael 
Angelo,  Rembrandt,  did  what  they  did  without  premeditation  or 
effort — their  works  came  from  their  minds  as  a  natural  birth — if 
you  had  asked  them  why  they  adopted  this  or  that  style,  they 
would  have  answered,  because  they  could  not  help  it,  and  because 
they  knew  of  no  other.     So  Shakspeare  says : 

"  Our  poesy  is  as  a  gum  which  issues 
From  whence  'tis  nourished.     The  fire  i'  th'  flint 
Shows  not  till  it  be  struck  ;  our  gentle  flame 
Provokes  itself;  and,  like  the  current,  flies 
Each  bound  it  chafes." 

Shakspeare  himself  was  an  example  of  his  own  rule,  and  appears 
to  have  owed  almost  everything  to  chance,  scarce  anything  to  in- 
dustry or  design.  His  poetry  flashes  from  him,  like  the  lightning 
from  the  summer-cloud,  or  the  stroke  from  the  sun-flower.  When 
we  look  at  the  admirable  comic  designs  of  Hogarth,  they  seem, 
from  the  unfinished  state  in  which  they  are  left,  and  from  the 
freedom  of  the  pencilling,  to  have  cost  him  little  trouble  ;  where- 
as the  Sigismunda  is  a  very  labored  and  comparatively  feeble 
performance,  and  he  accordingly  set  great  store  by  it.  He  also 
thought  highly  of  his  portraits,  and  boasted  that  "  he  could  paint 
equal  to  Vandyke,  give  him  his  time  and  let  him  choose  his  sub- 
ject." This  was  the  very  reason  why  he  could  not.  Vandyke's 
excellence  consisted  in  this,  that  he  could  paint  a  fine  portrait  of 
any  one  at  sight :  let  him  take  ever  so  much  pains  or  choose  ever 
so  bad  a  subject,  he  could  not  help  making  something  of  it.  His 
eye,  his  mind,  his  hand  was  cast  in  the  mould  of  grace  and  deli- 
cacy. Milton  again  is  understood  to  have  preferred  Paradise 
Regained- to  his  other  works.  This,  if  so,  was  either  because  he 
himself  was  conscious  of  having  failed  in  it ;  or  because  other* 
thought  he  had.  We  are  willing  to  think  well  of  that  which  we 
know  wants  our  favorable  opinion,  and  to  prop  the  ricketty  bant- 
ling. Every  step  taken,  invito,  Minerva,  costs  us  something,  and 
is  set  down  to  account ;  whereas  we  are  borne  on  the  full  tide  of 
genius  and  success  into  the  very  haven  of  our  desires,  almost  im- 
perceptibly. The  strength  of  the  impulse  by  which  we  are  car- 
ried along  prevents  the  sense  of  difficulty  or  resistance :  the  true 


10  TABLE  TALK. 


inspiration  of  the  Muse  is  soft  and  balmy  as  the  air  we  breathe  ; 
and  indeed,  leaves  us  little  to  boast  of,  for  the  effect  hardly  seems 
to  be  our  own. 

There  are  two  persons  who  always  appear  to  me  to  have  worked 
under  this  involuntary,  silent  impulse  more  than  any  others ; 
I  mean  Rembrandt  and  Correggio.  It  is  not  known  thai  Correg- 
gio  ever  saw  a  picture  of  any  great  master.  He  lived  and  died 
obscurely  in  an  obscure  village.  We  have  few  of  his  works, 
but  they  are  all  perfect.  What  truth,  what  grace,  what  angelic 
sweetness  are  there !  Not  one  line  or  tone  that  is  not  divinely 
soft  or  exquisitely  fair ;  the  painter's  mind  rejecting,  by  a  na- 
tural process,  all  that  is  discordant,  coarse,  or  unpleasing.  The 
whole  is  an  emanation  of  pure  thought.  The  work  grew  under 
his  hand  as  if  of  itself,  and  came  out  without  a  flaw,  like  the 
diamond  from  the  rock.  He  knew  not  what  he  did ;  and  looked 
at  each  modest  grace  as  it  stole  from  the  canvas  with  anxious  de- 
light and  wonder.  Ah  !  gracious  God  !  not  he  alone  ;  how  many 
more  in  all  time  have  looked  at  their  works  with  the  same  feelings, 
not  knowing  but  they  too  may  have  done  something  divine,  im- 
mortal, and  finding  in  that  sole  doubt  ample  amends  for  pining 
solitude,  for  want,  neglect,  and  an  untimely  fate.  Oh !  for  one 
hour  of  that  uneasy  rapture,  when  the  mind  first  thinks  it  has 
struck  out  something  that  may  last  for  ever  ;  when  the  germ  of 
excellence  bursts  from  nothing  on  the  startled  sight !  Take,  take 
away  the  gaudy  triumphs  of  the  world,  the  long  deathless  shout 
of  fame,  and  give  back  that  heart-felt  sigh  with  which  the  youth- 
ful enthusiast  first  weds  immortality  as  his  secret  bride !  And 
hou  too,  Rembrandt !  who  wert  a  man  of  genius,  if  ever  painter 
was  a  man  of  genius,  did  this  dream  hang  over  you  as  you 
painted  that  strange  picture  of  Jacob's  Ladder?  Did  your  eye 
strain  over  those  gradual  dusky  clouds  into  futurity,  or  did  those 
white-vested,  beaked  figures  babble  to  you  of  fame  as  they  ap- 
proached ?  Did  you  know  what  you  were  about,  or  did  you  not 
paint  much  as  it  happened  ?  Oh  !  if  you  had  thought  once  about 
yourself,  or  anything  but  the  subject,  it  would  have  been  all  over 
with  "  the  glory,  the  intuition,  the  amenity,"  the  dream  had  fled, 
the  spell  had  been  broken.  The  hills  would  not  have  looked  like 
those  we  see  in  sleep — that  tatterdemalion  figure  of  Jacob,  thrown 


WHETHER  GENIUS  IS  CONSCIOUS  OF  ITS  POWERS?      41 

on  one  side,  would  not  have  slept  as  if  the  breath  was  fairly  taken 
out  of  his  body.  So  much  do  Rembrandt's  pictures  savor  of  the 
soul  and  body  of  reality,  that  the  thoughts  seem  identical  with 
the  objects-*-if  there  had  been  the  least  question  what  he  should 
have  done,  or  how  he  should  do  it,  or  how  far  he  had  succeeded, 
it  would  have  spoiled  everything.  Lumps  of  light  hung  upon 
his  pencil  and  fell  upon  his  canvas  like  dew-drops :  the  shadowy 
veil  was  drawn  over  his  backgrounds  by  the  dull,  obtuse  finger 
of  night,  making  darkness  visible  by  still  greater  darkness  that 
could  only  be  felt !    . 

Cervantes  is  another  instance  of  a  man  of  genius,  whose  work 
may  be  said  to  have  sprung  from  his  mind,  like  Minerva  from  the 
head  of  J  upiter.  Don  Quixote  and  Sancho  were  a  kind  of  twins ; 
and  the  jests  of  the  latter,  as  he  says,  fell  from  him  like  drops  of 
rain  when  he  least  thought  of  it.  Shakspeare's  creations  were 
more  multiform,  but  equally  natural  and  unstudied.  Raphael 
and  Milton  seem  partial  exceptions  to  this  rule.  Their  produc- 
tions were  of  the  composite  order ;  and  those  of  the  latter  some- 
times even  amount  to  centos.  Accordingly,  we  find  Milton  quoted 
among  those  authors,  who  have  left  proofs  of  their  entertaining  a 
high  opinion  of  themselves,  and  of  cherishing  a  strong  aspiration 
after  fame.  Some  of  Shakspeare's  Sonnets  have  been  also  cited 
to  the  same  purpose ;  but  they  seem  rather  to  convey  wayward 
and  dissatisfied  complaints  of  his  untoward  fortune  than  anything 
like  a  triumphant  and  confident  reliance  on  his  future  renown. 
He  appears  to  have  stood  more  alone  and  to  have  thought  less 
about  himself  than  any  living  being.  One  reason  for  this  differ- 
ence may  have  been,  that  as  a  writer  he  was  tolerably  successful 
in  his  life-time,  and  no  doubt  produced  his  works  with  very  great 
facility. 

I  hardly  know  whether  to  class  Claude  Lorraine  as  among 
those  who  succeeded  most  "  through  happiness  or  pains."  Tt  is 
certain  that  he  imitated  no  one,  and  has  had  no  successful  imita- 
tor. The  perfection  of  his  landscapes  seems  to  nave  been  owing 
to  an  inherent  quality  of  harmony,  to  an  exquisite  sense  of  delicacy 
in  his  mind.  His  monotony  has  been  complained  of,  which  is 
apparently  produced  from  a  preconceived  idea  in  his  mind  ;  and 
not  long  ago  I  heard  a  person,  not  more  distinguishea  for  the  sub- 


42  TABLE  TALK. 


tilty  than  the  naivete  of  his  sarcasms,  remark,  "  Oh !  I  never  look 
at  Claude  :  if  one  has  seen  one  of  his  pictures,  one  has  seen  them 
all ;  they  are  every  one  alike :  there  is  the  same  sky,  the  same 
climate,  the  same  time  of  day,  the  same  tree,  and  th&t  tree  is  like 
a  cabbage.  To  be  sure,  they  say  he  did  pretty  well ;  but  when 
a  man  is  always  doing  one  thing,  he  ought  to  do  it  pretty  well." 
There  is  no  occasion  to  write  the  name  under  this  criticism,  and 
the  best  answer  to  it  is  that  it  is  true — his  pictures  are  always 
the  same,  but  we  never  wish  them  to  be  otherwise.  Perfection  is 
one  thing.  I  confess  I  think  that  Claude  knew  this,  and  felt  that 
his  were  the  finest  landscapes  in  the  world — that  ever  had  been, 
or  would  ever  be. 

I  am  not  in  the  humor  to  pursue  this  argument  any  farther  at 
present,  but  to  write  a  digression.  If  the  reader  is  not  already 
apprised  of  it,  he  will  please  to  take  notice  that  I  write  this  at 
Winterslow.  My  style  there  is  apt  to  be  redundant  and  excursive. 
At  other  times  it  may  be  cramped,  dry,  abrupt ;  but  here  it  flows 
like  a  river,  and  overspreads  its  banks.  1  have  not  to  seek  for 
thoughts  or  hunt  for  images  :  they  come  of  themselves,  1  inhale 
them  with  the  breeze,  and  the  silent  groves  are  vocal  with  a  thous- 
and recollections — 

"  And  visions,  as  poetic  eyes  avow, 
Hang  on  each  leaf,  and  cling  to  every  bough." 

Here  I  came  fifteen  years  ago,  a  willing  exile  ;  and  as  I  trod  the 
lengthened  greensward  by  the  low  wood-side,  repeated  the  old 
line, 

"  My  mind  to  me  a  kingdom  is  !" 

[  found  it  so  then,  before,  and  since  ;  and  shall  I  faint,  now  that 
1  have  poured  out  the  spirit  of  that  mind  to  the  world,  and  treated 
many  subjects  with  truth,  with  freedom,  and  power,  because  I 
have  been  followed  with  one  cry  of  abuse  ever  since  for  not  being 
a  government-tool  ?  Here  I  returned  a  few  years  after  to  finish 
some  works  I  had  undertaken,  doubtful  of  the  event,  but  deter 
mined  to  do  my  best ;  and  wrote  that  character  of  Millimant, 
which  was  once  transcribed  by  fingers  fairer  than  Aurora's,  but 


WHETHER  GENIUS  IS  CONSCIOUS  OF  ITS  POWERS  ?      43 

no  notice  was  taken  of  it,  because  I  was  not  a  government-tool, 
and  must  be  supposed  devoid  of  taste  and  elegance  by  all  who 
aspired  to  these  qualities  in  their  own  persons.  Here  I  sketched 
my  account  of  that  old  honest  Signior  Orlando  Friscobaldo,  which 
with  its  fine,  racy,  acrid  tone  that  old  crab-apple,  G*fF***d,  would 
have  relished  or  pretended  to  relish,  had  I  been  a  government- 
tool  !  Here  too  I  have  written  Table-Talks  without  number,  and 
as  yet  without  a  falling  off,  till  now  that  they  are  nearly  done,  or 
I  should  not  make  this  boast.  I  could  swear  (were  they  not  mine) 
the  thoughts  in  many  of  them  are  founded  as  the  rock,  free  as  air, 
the  tone  like  an  Italian  picture.  What  then  ?  Had  the  style 
been  like  polished  steel,  as  firm  and  as  bright,  it  would  have 
availed  me  nothing,  for  I  am  not  a  government-tool  !  I  had  en- 
deavored to  guide  the  taste  of  the  English  people  to  the  best  old 
English  writers ;  but  I  had  said  that  English  Kings  did  not  reign 
by  right  divine,  and  that  his  present  majesty  was  descended  from 
an  elector  of  Hanover  in  a  right  line  ;  and  no  loyal  subject  would 
after  this  look  into  Webster  or  Deckar  because  I  had  pointed 
them  out.  I  had  done  something  ^more  than  any  one  except 
Schlegel)  to  vindicate  the  Characters  of  Shakspeare's  Plays  from 
the  stigma  of  French  criticism :  but  our  Anti-Jacobin  and  Anti- 
Gallican  writers  soon  found  out  that  I  had  said  and  written  that 
Frenchmen,  Englishmen,  men  were  not  slaves  by  birth-right. 
This  was  enough  to  damn  the  work.  Such  has  been  the  head  and 
front  of  my  offending.  While  my  friend  Leigh  Hunt  was  writing 
the  Descent  of  Liberty,  and  strewing  the  march  of  the  Allied 
Sovereigns  with  flowers,  I  sat  by  the  waters  of  Babylon  and  hung 
my  harp  upon  the  willows.  I  knew  all  along  there  was  but  one 
alternative — the  cause  of  kings  or  of  mankind.  This  I  foresaw, 
this  I  feared  ;  the  world  see  it  now,  when  it  is  too  late.  There- 
fore I  lamented,  and  would  take  no  comfort  when  the  Mighty  fell, 
because  we,  all  men,  fell  with  him,  like  lightning  from  heaven,  to 
grovel  in  the  grave  of  Liberty,  in  the  style  of  Legitimacy ! 
There  is  but  one  question  in  the  hearts  of  monarchs,  whether 
mankind  are  their  property  or  not.  There  was  but  this  one  ques- 
tion in  mine.  I  had  made  an  abstract,  metaphysical  principle  of 
this  question.  I  was  not  the  dupe  of  the  voice  of  the  charmers. 
By  my  hatred  of  tyrants  I  knew  what  their  hatred  of  the  free- 


TABLE  TALK. 


born  spirit  of  man  must  be,  of  the  semblance,  of  the  very  name 
of  Liberty  and  Humanity.  And  while  others  bowed  their  heads 
to  the  image  of  the  Beast,  I  spit  upon  it  and  buffeted  it,  and 
made  mouths  at  it,  and  pointed  at  it,  and  drew  aside  the  veil  that 
then  half  concealed  it,  but  has  been  since  thrown  off,  and  named 
it  by  its  right  name  ;  and  it  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  my  having 
penetrated  their  mystery  would  go  unrequited  by  those  whose 
delight  the  idol,  half-brute,  half-demon,  was,  and  who  are  ashamed 
to  acknowledge  the  image  and  superscription  as  their  own  !  Two 
half-friends  of  mine,  who  would  not  make  a  whole  one  between 
them,  agreed  the  other  day  that  the  indiscriminate,  incessant  abuse 
of  what  I  write  was  mere  prejudice  and  party-spirit,  and  that  what 
I  do  in  periodicals  and  without  a  name  does  well,  pays  well, 
and  is  "  cried  out  upon  in  the  top  of  the  compass."  It  is  this  indeed 
that  has  saved  my  shallow  skiff  from  quite  foundering  on  Tory 
spite  and  rancor  ;  for  when  people  have  been  reading  and  approv- 
ing an  article  in  a  miscellaneous  journal,  it  does  not  do  to  say 
when  they  discover  the  author  afterwards  (whatever  might  have 
Deen  the  case  before)  it  is  written  by  a  blockhead ;  and  even  Mr. 
Jerdan  recommends  the  volume  of  Characteristics  as  an  excel- 
lent little  work,  because  it  has  no  cabalistic  name  in  the  title-page, 
and  swears  "  there  is  a  first-rate  article  of  forty  pages  in  the  last 
number  of  the  Edinburgh  from  Jeffrey's  own  hand,"  though 
when  he  learns  against  his  will  that  it  is  mine,  he  devotes  three 
successive  numbers  of  the  Literary  Gazette  to  abuse  "  that 
strange  article  in  the  last  number  of  the  Edinburgh  Review." 
Others  who  had  not  this  advantage  have  fallen  a  sacrifice  to  the 
obloquy  attached  to  the  suspicion  of  doubting,  or  of  being  ac- 
quainted with  any  one  who  is  known  to  doubt,  the  divinity  of  kings. 
Poor  Keats  paid  the  forfeit  of  this  leze  majeste  with  his  health  and 
life.  What,  though  his  Verses  were  like  the  breath  of  spring, 
and  many  of  his  thoughts  like  flowers — would  this,  with  the  circle 
of  critics  that  beset  a  throne,  lessen  the  crime  of  their  having  been 
praised  in  the  Examiner  ?  The  lively  and  most  agreeable  Editor 
of  that  paper  has  in  like  manner  been  driven  from  his  country 
and  his  friends  who  delighted  in  him,  for  no  other  reason  than 
having  written  the  story  of  Rimini,  and  asserted  ten  years  ago, 


WHETHER  GENIUS  IS  CONSCIOUS  OF  ITS  POWERS  i      45 

"  that  the  most  accomplished  prince  in  Europe  was  an  Adonis  of 
fifty !" 

"  Return,  Alpheus,  the  dread  voice  is  past, 
That  shrunk  thy  streams;  return,  Sicilian  Muse  !" 

I  look  out  of  my  window  and  see  that  a  shower  has  just 
fallen  :  the  fields  look  green  after  it,  and  a  rosy  cloud  hangs 
over  the  brow  of  the  hill ;  a  lily  expands  its  petals  in  the  moisture, 
dressed  in  its  lovely  green  and  white ;  a  shepherd-boy  has  just 
brought  some  pieces  of  turf  with  daisies  and  grass  for  his  young 
mistress  to  make  a  bed  for  her  sky-lark,  not  doomed  to  dip  his 
wings  in  the  dappled  dawn — my  cloudy  thoughts  drawn  off,  the 
storm  of  angry  politics  has  blown  over — Mr.  Blackwood,  I  am 
yours — Mr.  Croker,  my  service  to  you — Mr.  T.  Moore,  I  am 
alive  and  well — really,  it  is  wonderful  how  little  the  worse  I  am 
for  fifteen  years'  wear  and  tear,  how  I  come  upon  my  legs  again 
on  the  ground  of  truth  and  nature,  and  "  look  abroad  into  univer- 
sality," forgetting  that  there  is  any  such  person  as  myself  in  the 
world  ! 

I  have  let  this  passage  stand  (however  critical)  because  it  may 
serve  as  a  practical  illustration  to  show  what  authors  really  think 
of  themselves  when  put  upon  the  defensive — (I  confess,  the  sub- 
ject has  nothing  to  do  with  the  title  at  the  head  of  the  Essay  !) — 
and  as  a  warning  to  those  who  may  reckon  upon  their  fair  pro- 
portion of  popularity  as  the  reward  of  the  exercise  of  an  indepen- 
dent spirit  and  such  talents  as  they  possess.  It  sometimes  seems 
at  first  sight  as  if  the  low  scurrility  and  jargon  of  abuse  by  which 
it  is  attempted  to  overlay  all  common  sense  and  decency  by  a 
tissue  of  lies  and  nicknames,  everlastingly  repeated  and  applied 
indiscriminately  to  all  those  who  are  not  of  the  regular  govern- 
ment-party, was  peculiar  to  the  present  time,  and  the  anomalous 
growth  of  modern  criticism ;  but  if  we  look  back,  we  shall  find 
the  same  system  acted  upon,  as  often  as  power,  prejudice,  dul- 
ness,  and  spite  found  their  account  in  playing  the  game  into  one 
another's  hands — in  decrying  popular  efforts,  and  in  giving  cur- 
rency to  every  species  of  base  metal  that  had  iheir  own  conven- 
tional stamp  upon  it.     The  names  of  Pope  and  Dryden  were  as- 


46  TABLE  TALK. 


sailed  with  daily  and  unsparing  abuse — the  epithet  A.  P.  E.  was 
levelled  at  the  sacred  head  of  the  former — and  if  even  men  like 
these,  having  to  deal  with  the  consciousness  of  their  own  infirmi- 
ties and  the  insolence  and  spurns  of  wanton  enmity,  must  have 
found  it  hard  to  possess  their  souls  in  patience,  any  living  writer 
amidst  such  contradictory  evidence  can  scarcely  expect  to  retain 
much  calm,  steady  conviction  of  his  own  merits,  or  build  himself 
a  secure  reversion  in  immortality. 

However  one  may  in  a  fit  of  spleen  and  impatience  turn  round 
and  assert  one's  claims  in  the  face  of  low-bred,  hireling  malice,  I 
will  here  repeat  what  I  set  out  with  saying,  that  there  never  yet 
was  a  man  of  sense  and  proper  spirit,  who  would  not  decline 
rather  than  court  a  comparison  with  any  of  those  names,  whose 
reputation  he  really  emulates — who  would  not  be  sorry  to  sup- 
pose that  any  of  the  great  heirs  of  memory  had  as  many  foibles 
as  he  knows  himself  to  possess — and  who  would  not  shrink  from 
including  himself  or  being  included  by  others  in  the  same  praise, 
that  was  offered  to  long-established  and  universally  acknowledged 
merit,  as  a  kind  of  profanation.  Those  who  are  ready  to  fancy 
themselves  Raphaels  and  Homers  are  very  inferior  men  indeed — 
they  have  not  even  an  idea  of  the  mighty  names  that  "  they  take 
in  vain."  They  are  as  deficient  in  pride  as  in  modesty,  and 
have  not  so  much  as  served  an  apprenticeship  to  a  true  and 
honorable  ambition.  They  mistake  a  momentary  popularity  for 
lasting  renown,  and  a  sanguine  temperament  for  the  inspira- 
tions of  genius.  The  love  of  fame  is  too  high  and  delicate  a 
feeling  in  the  mind  to  be  mixed  up  with  realities — it  is  a  solitary 
abstraction,  the  secret  sigh  of  the  soul — 

"  It  is  all  one  as  we  should  love 
A  bright  particular  star,  and  think  to  wed  it." 

A  name  "  fast-anchored  in  the  deep  abyss  of  time  "  is  like  a  star 
twinkling  in  the  firmament,  cold,  silent,  distant,  but  eternal  and 
sublime  ;  and  our  transmitting  one  to  posterity  is  as  if  we  should 
contemplate  our  translation  to  the  skies.  If  we  are  not  contented 
with  this  feeling  on  the  subject,  we  shall  never  sit  in  Cassiopeia's 
chair,  nor  will  our  names,  studding  Ariadne's  crown  or  stream- 
ing with  Berenice's  locks,  ever  make 


WHETHER  GENIUS  IS  CONSCIOUS  OF  ITS  POWERS?       47 

"  the  face  of  heaven  so  bright 
That  birds  shall  sing,  and  think  it  were  not  night." 

Those  who  are  in  love  only  with  noise  and  show,  ^.stead  of  devot- 
ing  themselves  to  a  life  of  study,  had  better  hire  a  booth  at  Bar. 
tlemy-Fair,  or  march  at  the  head  of  a  recruiting  regiment  with 
drums  beating  and  colors  flying  ! 

It  has  been  urged,  that  however  little  we  may  be  disposed  to 
indulge  the  reflection  at  other  times  or  out  of  mere  self-compla- 
cency, yet  the  mind  cannot  help  being  conscious  of  the  effort 
required  for  any  great  work  while  it  is  about  it,  of 

"  The  high  endeavor  and  the  glad  success." 

I  grant  that  there  is  a  sense  of  power  in  such  cases,  with  the  ex- 
ception before  stated  ;  but  then  this  very  effort  and  state  of  excite- 
ment engrosses  the  mind  at  the  time,  and  leaves  it  listless  and 
exhausted  afterwards.  The  energy  we  exert,  or  the  high  state 
of  enjoyment  we  feel,  puts  us  out  of  conceit  with  ourselves  at 
other  times  :  compared  to  what  we  are  in  the  act  of  composition, 
we  seem  dull,  common-place  people,  generally  speaking ;  and 
what  we  have  been  able  to  perform  is  rather  matter  of  wonder 
than  of  self-congratulation  to  us.  The  stimulus  of  writing  is  like 
the  stimulus  of  intoxication,  with  which  we  can  hardly  sympa- 
thize in  our  sober  moments,  when  we  are  no  longer  under  the 
inspiration  of  the  demon,  or  when  the  virtue  is  gone  out  of  us. 
While  we  are  engaged  in  any  work,  we  are  thinking  of  the 
subject,  and  cannot  stop  to  admire  ourselves ;  and  when  it  is 
done,  we  look  at  it  with  comparative  indifference.  I  will  venture 
to  say,  that  no  one  but  a  pedant  ever  read  his  own  works  regu- 
larly through.  They  are  not  his — they  are  become  mere  words, 
waste-paper,  and  have  none  of  the  glow,  the  creative  enthusiasm, 
the  vehemence,  and  natural  spirit  with  which  he  wrote  them. 
When  we  have  once  committed  our  thoughts  to  paper,  written 
them  fairly  out,  and  seen  that  they  are  right  in  the  printing,  if 
we  are  in  our  right  wits,  we  have  done  with  them  for  ever.  I 
sometimes  try  to  read  an  article  I  have  written  in  some  maga- 
zine or  review — (for  when  they  are  bound  up  in  a  volume,  I 
dread  the  very  sight  of  them) — but  stop  afte/  a  sentence  or  two 


U  TABLE  TALK. 


and  never  recur  to  the  task.  I  know  pretty  well  what  I  have  to 
Bay  on  the  subject,  and  do  not  want  to  go  to  school  to  myself.  It 
is  the  worst  instance  of  the  bis  repetita  crambe  in  the  world.  I  do 
not  think  that  even  painters  have  much  delight  in  looking  at  their 
works  after  they  are  done.  While  they  are  in  progress,  there  is 
a  great  degree  of  satisfaction  in  considering  what  has  been  done, 
or  what  is  still  to  do — but  this  is  hope,  is  reverie,  and  ceases  with 
the  completion  of  our  efforts.  I  should  not  imagine  Raphael  or 
Correggio  would  have  much  pleasure  in  looking  at  their  former 
works,  though  they  might  recollect  the  pleasure  they  had  had  in 
painting  them ;  they  might  spy  defects  in  them  (for  the  idea  of 
unattainable  perfection  still  keeps  pace  with  our  actual  approaches 
to  it),  and  fancy  that  they  were  not  worthy  of  immortality.  The 
greatest  portrait-painter  the  world  ever  saw  used  to  write  under 
hiss  pictures,  "  Titianus  faciebat"  signifying  that  they  were  im- 
perfect ;  and  in  his  letter  to  Charles  V.  accompanying  one  of  his 
most  admired  works,  he  only  spoke  of  the  time  he  had  been  about 
it.  Annibal  Caracci  boasted  that  he  could  do  like  Titian  and 
Correggio,  and,  like  most  boasters,  was  wrong.  (See  his  spirited 
Letter  to  his  cousin  Ludovico,  on  seeing  the  pictures  at  Parma.) 

The  greatest  pleasure  in  life  is  that  of  reading,  while  we  are 
young.  I  have  had  as  much  of  this  pleasure  as  perhaps  any  one. 
As  I  grow  older,  it  fades  ;  or  else,  the  stronger  stimulus  of  writing 
takes  off  the  edge  of  it.  At  present,  I  have  neither  time  nor 
inclination  for  it :  yet  I  should  like  to  devote  a  year's  entire  leis- 
ure to  a  course  of  the  English  Novelists  ;  and  perhaps  clap  on  that 
old  sly  knave,  Sir  Walter,  to  the  end  of  the  list.  It  is  astonishing 
how  I  used  formerly  to  relish  the  style  of  certain  authors,  at  a 
time  when  I  myself  despaired  of  ever  writing  a  single  line.  Pro- 
bably this  was  the  reason.  It  is  in  mental  as  in  natural  as- 
cent— intellectual  objects  seem  higher  when  we  survey  them  from 
below,  than  when  we  look  down  from  any  given  elevation  above 
the  common  level.  My  three  favorite  writers  about  the  time  I 
speak  of  were  Burke,  Junius,  and  Rousseau.  I  was  never  weary 
of  admiring  and  wondering  at  the  felicities  of  the  style,  the  turns 
of  expression,  the  refinements  of  thought  and  sentiment :  I  laia 
the  book  down  to  find  out  the  secret  of  so  much  strength  and 
beauty,  and  took  it  up  again  in  despair,  to  read  on  and  admir* 


WHETHER  GENIUS  IS  CONSCIOUS  OF  ITS  POWERS  ?       49 

So  I  passed  whole  days,  months,  and  I  may  add,  years  ;  and  have 
only  this  to  say  now,  that  as  my  life  began,  so  I  could  wish  that 
it  may  end.  The  last  time  I  tasted  this  luxury  in  its  full  perfec- 
tion was  one  day  after  a  sultry  day's  walk  in  summer  between 
Farnham  and  Alton.  I  was  fairly  tired  out ;  I  walked  into  an 
inn-yard  (I  think  at  the  latter  place) ;  I  was  shown  by  the  waiter 
to  what  looked  at  first  like  common  out-houses  at  the  other  end 
of  it,  but  they  turned  out  to  be  a  suite  of  rooms,  probably  a  hun- 
dred years  old — the  one  I  entered  opened  into  an  old-fashioned 
garden,  embellished  with  beds  of  larkspur  and  a  leaden  Mercury  ; 
it  was  wainscoted,  and  there  was  a  grave-looking,  dark-colored 
portrait  of  Charles  II.  hanging  up  over  the  tiled  chimney-piece. 
I  had  "  Love  for  Love  "  in  my  pocket,  and  began  to  read  ;  coffee 
was  brought  in,  in  a  silver  coffee-pot ;  the  cream,  the  bread  and 
butter,  everything  was  excellent,  and  the  flavor  of  Congreve's 
style  prevailed  over  all.  I  prolonged  the  entertainment  til  a  late 
hour,  and  relished  this  divine  comedy  better  even  than  when  I 
used  to  see  it  played  by  Miss  Mellon,  as  Miss  Prue  ;  Bob  Palmer, 
as  Tattle  ;  and  Bannister,  as  honest  Ben.  This  circumstance 
happened  just  five  years  ago,  and  it  seems  like^yesterday.  If  I 
count  my  life  so  by  lustres,  it  will  soon  glide  away ;  yet  I  shall 
not  have  to  repine,  if,  while  it  lasts,  it  is  enriched  with  a  few  suet 
recollections  ! 

JBCOND   SERIES PART  I.  5 


50  TABLE  TALK. 


ESSAY  V. 

On  Londoners  and  Country  People. 

[  do  not  agree  with  Mr.  Blackwood  in  his  definition  of  the  word 
Cockney.  He  means  by  it  a  person  who  has  happened  at  any 
time  to  live  in  London,  and  who  is  not  a  Tory — I  mean  by  it  a 
person  who  has  never  lived  out  of  London,  and  who  has  got  all 
his  ideas  from  it. 

The  true  Cockney  has  never  travelled  beyond  the  purlieus  of 
the  Metropolis,  either  in  the  body  or  the  spirit.  Primrose-hill  is 
the  Ultima  Thule  of  his  most  romantic  desires  ;  Greenwich  Park 
stands  "him  in  stead  of  the  Vales  of  Arcady.  Time  and  space  are 
lost  to  him.  He  is  confined  to  one  spot,  and  to  the  present  mo- 
ment. He  sees  everything  near,  superficial,  little,  in  hasty  suc- 
cession. The  world  turns  round,  and  his  head  with  it,  like  a 
roundabout  at  a  fair,  till  he  becomes  stunned  and  giddy  with  the 
motion.  Figures  glide  by,  as  in  a  camera  obscura.  There  is  a 
glare,  a  perpetual  hubbub,  a  noise,  a  crowd  about  him ;  he  sees 
and  hears  a  vast  number  of  things,  and  knows  nothing.  He  is 
pert,  raw,  ignorant,  conceited,  ridiculous,  shallow,  contemptible. 
His  senses  keep  him  alive  ;  and  he  knows,  inquires,  and  cares  for 
aothing  farther.  He  meets  the  Lord  Mayor's  coach,  and  without 
ceremony  treats  himself  to  an  imaginary  ride  in  it.  He  notices 
.he  people  going  to  court  or  to  a  city-feast,  and  is  quite  satisfied 
with  the  show.  He  takes  the  wall  of  a  Lord,  and  fancies  himself 
as  good  as  he.  He  sees  an  infinite  quantity  of  people  pass  along 
the  street,  aud  thinks  there  is  no  such  thing  as  life  or  a  knowledge 
of  character  to  be  found  out  of  London.  "  Beyond  Hyde  Park 
all  is  a  desert  to  him."  He  despises  the  country,  because  lie  is 
ignorant  of  it,  and  the  town,  because  he  is  familiar  with  it.  He 
is  as  well  acquainted  with  St.  Paul's  as  if  he  had  built  it,  and  talks 
of  Westminster  Abbey  and  Poets'  Corner  with  great  indifference. 


ON  LONDONERS  AND  COUNTRY  PEOPLE.  51 

The  King,  the  House  of  Lords  and  Commons  are  his  very  good 
friends.  He  knows  the  members  for  Westminster  or  the  City  by 
sight,  and  bows  to  the  Sheriffs  or  the  Sheriffs'  men.  He  is  hand 
and  glove  with  the  Chairman  of  some  Committee.  He  is,  in  short. 
a  great  man  by  proxy,  and  comes  so  often  in  contact  with  fine 
persons  and  things,  that  he  rubs  off  a  little  of  the  gilding,  and  is 
surcharged  with  a  sort  of  second-hand,  vapid,  tingling,  trouble, 
some  self-importance.  His  personal  vanity  is  thus  continually 
flattered  and  perked  up  into  ridiculous  self-complacency,  while  his 
imagination  is  jaded  and  impaired  by  daily  misuse.  Everything 
is  vulgarised  in  his  mind.  Nothing  dwells  long  enough  on  it  to 
produce  an  interest ;  nothing  is  contemplated  sufficiently  at  a 
distance  to  excite  curiosity  or  wonder.  Your  true  Co:kney  is  your 
only  true  leveller.  Let  him  be  as  low  as  he  will,  he  fancies  he  is 
as  good  as  anybody  else.  He  has  no  respect  for  himself,  and 
still  less  (if  possible)  for  you.  He  cares  little  about  his  own  ad- 
vantages, if  he  can  only  make  a  jest  at  yours.  Every  feeling 
comes  to  him  through  a  medium  of  levity  and  impertinence ;  nor 
does  he  like  to  have  this  habit  of  mind  disturbed  by  being  brought 
into  collision  with  anything  serious  or  respectable.  He  despairs 
(in  such  a  crowd  of  competitors)  of  distinguishing  himself,  bu 
laughs  heartily  at  the  idea  of  being  able  to  trip  up  the  heels  of 
other  people's  pretensions.  A  Cockney  feels  no  gratitude.  This 
is  a  first  principle  with  him.  He  regards  any  obligation  you  confer 
upon  him  as  a  species  of  imposition,  a  ludicrous  assumption  of 
fancied  superiority.  He  talks  about  everything,  for  he  has  heard 
something  about  it ;  and  understanding  nothing  of  the  matter, 
concludes  he  has  as  good  a  right  as  you.  He  is  a  politician  ;  for 
he  has  seen  the  Parliament  House :  he  is  a  critic ;  because  he 
knows  the  principal  actors  by  sight — has  a  taste  for  music,  be- 
cause he  belongs  to  a  glee-club  at  the  West  End,  and  is  gallant, 
in  virtue  of  sometimes  frequenting  the  lobbies  at  half-price.  A 
mere  Londoner,  in  fact,  from  the  opportunities  he  has  of  knowing 
something  of  a  number  of  objects  (and  those  striking  ones)  fancies 
himself  a  sort  of  privileged  person  ;  remains  satisfied  with  the 
assumption  of  merits,  so  much  the  more  unquestionable  as  they 
are  not  his  own  ;  and  from  being  dazzled  with  noise,  show,  an'.l 
appearances,  is.  less  capable  of  giving  a  real  opinion,  or  emenng 

20 


52  TABLE  TALK 


into  any  subject  than  the  meanest  peasant.  There  are  greater 
lawyers,  orators,  painters,  philosophers,  poets,  players  in  London, 
than  in  any  other  part  of  the  United  Kingdom  :  he  is  a  Londoner, 
and  therefore  it  would  be  strange  if  he  did  not  know  more  of  law, 
eloquence,  art,  philosophy,  poetry,  acting,  than  any  one  without 
his  local  advantages,  and  who  is  merely  from  the  country.  This 
is  a  non  sequilur  ;  and  it  constantly  appeals  so  when  put  to  the 
test. 

A  real  Cockney  is  the  poorest  creature  in  the  world,  the  most 
literal,  the  most  mechanical,  and  yet  he  too  lives  in  a  world  of 
romance — a  fairy-land  of  his  own.  He  is  a  citizen  of  London ; 
and  this  abstraction  leads  his  imagination  the  finest  dance  in  the 
world.  London  is  the  first  city  in  the  habitable  globe ;  and 
therefore  he  must  be  superior  to  every  one  who  lives  out  of  it. 
There  are  more  people  in  London  than  anywhere  else ;  and 
though  a  dwarf  in  stature,  his  person  swells  out  and  expands  into 
ideal  importance  and  borrowed  magnitude.  He  resides  in  a  garret 
or  in  a  two  pair  of  stairs'  back  room  ;  yet  he  talks  of  the  mag- 
nificence of  London,  and  gives  himself  airs  of  consequence  upon 
it,  as  if  all  the  houses  in  Portman  or  in  Grosvenor  Square  were 
his  by  right  or  in  reversion.  "  He  is  owner  of  all  he  surveys." 
The  Monument,  the  Tower  of  London,  St.  James's  Palace,  the 
Mansion  House,  White-Hall,  are  part  and  parcel  of  his  being. 
Let  us  suppose  him  to  be  a  lawyer's  clerk  at  half-a-guinea  a 
week  :  but  he  knows  the  Inns  of  Court,  the  Temple  Gardens, 
and  Gray's-Inn  Passage — sees  the  lawyers  in  their  wigs  walking 
up  and  down  Chancery  Lane,  and  has  advanced  within  half-a- 
dozen  yards  of  the  Chancellor's  chair : — who  can  doubt  that  he 
understands  (by  implication)  every  point  of  the  law  (however 
intricate)  better  than  the  most  expert  country  practitioner  ?  He  is 
a  shopman,  and  nailed  all  day  behind  the  counter :  but  he  sees 
hundreds  and  thousands  of  gay,  well-dressed  people  pass — an 
endless  phantasmagoria — and  enjoys  their  liberty  and  gaudy 
fluttering  pride.  He  is  a  footman — but  he  rides  behind  beauty, 
through  a  crowd  of  carriages,  and  visits  a  thousand  shops.  Is  he 
a  tailor — that  last  infirmity  of  human  nature  ?  The  stigma  on 
his  profession  is  last  in  the  elegance  of  the  patterns  he  provides, 
and  of  the  persons  he  adorns  ;  and  he  is  something  very  different 


ON  LONDONERS  AND  COUNTRY  PEOPLE.  53 

from  a  mere  country  botcher.  Nay,  the  very  scavenger  and 
nightman  thinks  the  dirt  in  the  street  has  something  precious  in  it, 
and  his  employment  is  solemn,  silent,  sacred,  peculiar  to  London  : 
A  barker  in  Monmouth  Street,  a  slop-seller  in  Radcliffe  Highway, 
a  tapster  at  a  night-cellar,  a  beggar  in  St.  Giles'0,  a  drab  in  Fleet- 
Ditch,  live  in  the  eye  of  millions,  and  eke  out  a  dreary,  wretched, 
scanty,  or  loathsome  existence  from  the  gorgeous,  busy,  glowing 
scene  around  them.  It  is  a  common  saying,  among  such  persons, 
that  "  they  had  rather  be  hanged  in  London,  than  die  a  natural 
death  out  of  it  anywhere  else  " — Such  is  the  force  of  habit  and 
imagination.  Even  the  eye  of  childhood  is  dazzled  and  delighted 
with  the  polished  splendor  of  the  jewellers'  shops,  the  neatness  of 
the  turnery  ware,  the  festoons  of  artificial  flowers,  the  confec- 
tionery, the  chemists'  shops,  the  lamps,  the  horses,  the  carriages, 
the  sedan-chairs :  to  this  was  formerly  added  a  set  of  traditional 
associations — Whittington  and  his  Cat,  Guy  Faux  and  the  Gun- 
powder Treason,  the  Fire  and  the  Plague  of  London,  and  the 
Heads  of  the  Scotch  Rebels  that  were  stuck  on  Temple  Bar  in 
1745.  These  have  vanished,  and  in  their  stead  the  curious  and 
romantic  eye  must  be  content  to  pore  in  Pennant  for  the  site  of 
old  London-Wall,  or  to  peruse  the  sentimental  mile-stone  that 
marks  the  distance  to  the  place  "  where  Hickes's  Hall  formerly 
stood  ! " 

The  Cockney  lives  in  a  go-cart  of  local  prejudices  and  positive 
illusions  ;  and  when  he  is  turned  out  of  it,  he  hardly  knows  how 
to  stand  or  move.  He  ventures  through  Hyde  Park  Corner,  as  a 
cat  crosses  a  gutter.  The  trees  pass  by  the  coach  very  oddly. 
The  country  has  a  strange  blank  appearance.  It  is  not  lined 
with  houses  all  the  way,  like  London.  He  comes  to  places  he 
never  saw  or  heard  of.  He  finds  the  world  is  bigger  than  he 
thought  for.  He  might  have  dropped  from  the  moon,  for  anything 
he  knows  of  the  matter.  He  is  mightily  disposed  to  laugh,  but  is 
half  afraid  of  making  some  blunder.  Between  sheepishness  and 
conceit,  he  is  in  a  very  ludicrous  situation.  He  finds  that  the 
people  walk  on  two  legs,  and  wonders  to  hear  them  talk  a  dialect 
so  different  from  his  own.  He  perceives  London  fashions  have 
got  down  into  the  country  before  him,  and  that  some  of  the  better 
sort  are  aressed  as  well  as  he  is.     A  drove  oe  pigs  or  cattle 


84  TABLE  TALK 


stopping  the  road  is  a  very  troublesome  interruption.  A  crow  in 
a  field,  a  magpie  in  a  hedge,  are  to  him  very  odd  animals — he 
can't  tell  what  to  make  of  them,  or  how  they  live.  He  does  not 
altogether  like  the  accommodations  at  the  inns — it  is  not  what  he 
has  been  used  to  in  town.  He  begins  to  be  communicative — says 
he  was  "  born  within  the  sound  of  Bow-bell,"  and  attempts  some 
jokes,  at  which  nobody  laughs.  He  asks  the  coachman  a  ques 
tion,  to  which  he  receives  no  answer.  All  this  is  to  him  very 
unaccountable  and  unexpected.  He  arrives  at  his  journey's  end  ; 
and  instead  of  being  the  great  man  he  anticipated  among  his 
friends  and  country  relations,  finds  that  they  are  barely  civil  to 
him,  or  make  a  butt  of  him  ;  have  topics  of  their  own  which  he 
is  as  completely  ignorant  of  as  they  are  indifferent  to  what  he 
says,  so  that  he  is  glad  to  get  back  to  London  again,  where  he 
meets  with  his  favorite  indulgences  and  associates,  and  fancies 
the  whole  world  is  occupied  with  what  he  hears  and  sees. 

A  Cockney  loves  a  tea-garden  in  summer,  as  he  loves  the  play 
or  the  Cider-Cellar  in  winter — where  he  sweetens  the  air  with 
the  fumes  of  tobacco,  and  makes  it  echo  to  the  sound  of  his  owg 
voice.  This  kind  of  suburban  retreat  is  a  most  agreeable  relief 
to  the  close  and  confined  air  of  a  city  life.  The  imagination, 
long  pent  up  behind  a  counter  or  between  brick  walls,  with 
noisome  smells,  and  dingy  objects,  cannot  bear  at  once  to  launch 
into  the  boundless  expanse  of  the  country,  but  "  shorter  excur- 
sions  tries,"  coveting  something  between  the  two,  and  finding  it  at 
White-Conduit  House,  or  the  Rosemary  Branch,  or  Bagnigge 
Wells.  The  landlady  is  seen  at  a  bow-window  in  near  perspec- 
tive, with  punch-bowls  and  lemons  disposed  orderly  around — the 
lime-trees  or  poplars  wave  overhead  to  "  catch  the  breezy  air," 
through  which,  typical  of  the  huge  dense  cloud  that  hangs  over 
the  metropolis,  curls  up  the  thin,  blue,  odoriferous  vapor  of  Vir- 
ginia or  Oronooko — the  benches  are  ranged  in  rows,  the  fields  and 
hedge-rows  spread  out  their  verdure  ;  Hampstead  and  Highgate 
are  seen  in  the  back-ground,  and  contain  the  imagination  within 
gentle  limits — here  the  holiday  people  are  playing  ball ;  here 
they  are  playing  bowls — here  they  are  quaffing  ale,  there  sipping 
tea — here  the  loud  wager  is  heard,  there  the  political  debate.  Ip 
a  sequestered  nook  a  slender  youth  with  purple  face  and  droop 


ON  LONDONERS  AND  COUNTRY  PEOPLE.  55 

ing  head,  nodding  over  a  glass  of  gin  toddy,  breathes  in  tender 
accents — "  There's  naught  so  sweet  on  earth  as  Love's  young 
dream  ;':  while  "  Rosy  Ann  "  takes  its  turn,  and  "  Scots  wha  hae 
wi'  Wallace  bled  "  is  thundered  forth  in  accents  that  might  wake 
the  dead.  In  another  pait  sit  carpers  and  critics,  who  dispute  the 
score  of  the  reckoning  or  the  game,  or  cavil  at  the  taste  and  exe- 
cution of  the  would-be  Brahams  and  Durusets.  Of  this  latter 
class  was  Dr.  Goodman,  a  man  of  other  times — I  mean  of  those 
of  Smollet  and  Defoe — who  was  curious  in  opinion,  obstinate  in 
the  wrong,  great  in  little  things,  and  inveterate  in  petty  warfare. 
I  vow  he  held  me  an  argument  once  "  an  hour  by  St.  Dunstan's 
clock,"  while  I  held  an  umbrella  over  his  head  (the  friendly  pro- 
tection of  which  he  was  unwilling  to  quit  to  walk  in  the  rain  to 
Camberwell)  to  prove  to  me  that  Richard  Pinch  was  neither  a 
fives-player  nor  a  pleasing  singer.  "  Sir,"  said  he,  "  I  deny  that 
Mr.  Pinch  plays  the  game.  He  is  a  cunning  player,  but  not  a 
good  one.  I  grant  his  tricks,  his  little  mean  dirty  ways,  but  he 
is  not  a  manly  antagonist.  He  has  no  hit,  and  no  left-hand. 
How  then  can  he  set  up  for  a  superior  player  ?  And  then  as  to 
his  always  striking  the  ball  against  the  side  wings  at  Copenhagen- 
house,  Cavanagh,  sir,  used  to  say,  '  The  wall  was  made  to  hit  at !' 
I  have  no  patience  with  such  pitiful  shifts  and  advantages.  They 
are  an  insult  upon  so  fine  and  athletic  a  game  !  And  as  to  his 
setting,  up  for  a  singer,  it's  quite  ridiculous.     You  know,  Mr. 

H ,  that  to  be  a  really  excellent  singer,  a  man  must  lay  claim 

,to  one  of  two  things ;  in  the  first  place,  sir,  he  must  have  a  na- 
turally fine  ear  for  music,  or  secondly,  an  early  education,  ex- 
clusively devoted  to  that  study.  But  no  one  ever  suspected  Mr. 
Pinch  of  refined  sensibility ;  and  his  education,  as  we  all  know,  has 
been  a  little  at  large.  Then  again,  why  should  he  of  all  other  thing's 
be  always  singing  '  Rosy  Ann,'  and  '  Scots  wha  haewi'  Wallace 
bled,'  till  one  is  sick  of  hearing  them  ?  It's  preposterous,  and  I 
mean  to  tell  him  so.  You  know,  I  am  sure,  without  my  hinting  it, 
that  in  the  first  of  these  admired  songs,  the  sentiment  is  voluptuous 
and  tender,  and  in  the  last  patriotic.  Now  Pinch's  romance  never 
wandered  from  behind  his  counter,  and  his  patriotism  lies  in  hig 
breeches'  pocket.  Sir,  the  utmost  he  should  aspire  to  would  be  to 
play  upon  the  Jews'  harp  !"    This  story  of  the  Jews'  harp  tickled 


58  TABLE  TALK. 


some  of  Pinch's  friends,  who  gave  him  various  hints  of  it,  which 
nearly  drove  him  mad,  till  he  discovered  what  it  was  ;  for  though 
no  jest  or  sarcasm  ever  had  the  least  effect  upon  him,  yet  he  can- 
not bear  to  think  that  there  should  be  any  joke  of  this  kind  about 
him,  and  he  not  in  the  secret :  it  makes  against  that  knowing  cha- 
racter which  he  so  much  affects.  Pinch  is  in  one  respect  a  com. 
plete  specimen  of  a  Cockney.  He  never  has  anything  to  say,- and 
yet  is  never  at  a  loss  for  an  answer.  That  is,  his  pertness  keeps 
exact  pace  with  his  dulness.  His  friend,  the  Doctor,  used  to 
complain  of  this  in  good  set  terms. — "  You  can  never  make  any- 
thing of  Mr.  Pinch,"  he  would  say.  "  Apply  the  most  cutting 
lemark  to  him,  and  his  only  answer  is,  ?  The  same  to  you,  sir.'  If 
Shakspeare  were  to  rise  from  the  dead  to  confute  him,  I  firmly  be- 
lieve it  would  be  to  no  purpose.  I  assure  you,  I  have  found  it  so. 
I  once  thought  indeed  I  had  him  at  a  disadvantage,  but  I  was  mis- 
taken. You  shall  hear,  sir.  I  had  been  reading  the  following 
sentiment  in  a  modern  play — '  The  Road  to  Ruin,'  by  the  late 
Mr.  Holcroft — '  For  how  should  the  soul  of  Socrates  inhabit  the 
body  of  a  stocking-weaver  V  This  was  pat  to  the  point  (you 
know  our  friend  is  a  hosier  and  haberdasher).  I  came  full  with  it 
to  keep  an  appointment  I  had  with  Pinch,  began  a  game,  quar- 
relled with  him  in  the  middle  of  it  on  purpose,  went  up  stairs  to 
dress,  and  as  I  was  washing  my  hands  in  the  slop-basin  (watch- 
ing my  opportunity)  turned  coolly  round  and  said,  '  It's  impossi- 
ble there  should  be  any  sympathy  between  you  and  me,  Mr. 
Pinch  :  for  as  the  poet  says,  how  should  the  soul  of  Socrates  in- , 
habit  the  body  of  a  stocking- weaver  V  *  Ay,'  says  he,  '  does  the 
poet  say  so  ?  then  the  same  to  you,  sir  !'  I  was  confounded,  I  gave 
up  the  attempt  to  conquer  him  in  wit  or  argument.  He  would 
pose  the  Devil,  sir,  by  his  '  The  same  to  you,  sit.'  "  We  had 
another  joke  against  Richard  Pinch,  to  which  the  Doctor  was  not 
a  party,  which  was,  that  being  asked  after  the  respectability  of 
the  Hole  in  the  Wall,  at  the  time  that  Randall  took  it,  he  answered 
quite  unconsciously.  "  Oh  !  it's  a  very  genteel  place,  I  go  there 
myself  sometimes  !"  Dr.  Goodman  was  descended  by  the  mo- 
ther's side  from  the  poet  Jago,  was  a  private  gentleman  in  town, 
and  a  medical  dilettanti  in  the  country,  dividing  his  time  equally 
between  busi  less  and  pleasure  ;  had  an  inexhaustible  flow  of 


ON  LONDONERS  AND  COUNTRY  PEOPLE.  57 

words,  and  an  imperturbable  vanity,  and  held  "  stout  notions  on 
the  metaphysical  score."  He  maintained  the  free  agency  of  man, 
with  the  spirit  of  a  martyr  and  the  gaiety  of  a  man  of  wit  and 
pleasure  about  town — told  me  he  had  a  curious  tract  on  that 
subject  by  A.  C.  (Anthony  Collins)  which  he  carefully  locked  up 
in  his  box,  lest  any  one  should  see  it  but  himself,  to  the  detriment 
of  the  character  and  morals,  and  put  it  to  me  whether  it  was  not 
hard,  on  the  principles  of  philosophical  necessity,  for  a  man  to 
come  to  be  hanged  ?  To  which  I  replied,  "  I  thought  it  hard  on 
any  terms  !"  A  knavish  marker,  who  had  listened  to  the  dispute, 
laughed  at  this  retort,  and  seemed  to  assent  to  the  truth  of  it,  sup- 
posing it  might  one  day  be  his  own  case. 

Mr.  Smith  and  the  Brangtons,  in  "Evelina,"  are  the  finest 
possible  examples  of  the  spirit  of  Cockneyism.  I  once  knew  a 
linen-draper  in  the  City,  who  owned  to  me  he  did  not  quite  like 
this  part  of  Miss  Burney's  novel.  He  said,  "  I  myself  lodge  in 
a  first  floor,  where  there  are  young  ladies  in  the  house :  they 
sometimes  have  company,  and  if  I  am  out,  they  ask  me  to  lend 
them  the  use  of  my  apartment,  which  I  readily  do  out  of  polite- 
ness, or  if  it  is  an  agreeable  party,  I  perhaps  join  them.  All  this 
is  so  like  what  passes  in  the  novel,  that  I  fancy  myself  a  sort  of 
second  Mr.  Smith,  and  am  not  quite  easy  at  it !"  This  was  men- 
tioned to  the  fair  Authoress,  and  she  was  delighted  to  find  that 
her  characters  were  so  true,  that  an  actual  person  fancied  him- 
self to  be  one  of  them.  The  resemblance,  however,  was  only  in 
the  externals;  and  the  real  modesty  of  the  individual  stumbled 
on  the  likeness  to  a  city  coxcomb !  • 

It  is  curious  to  what  degree  persons,  brought  up  in  certain  oc- 
cupations in  a  great  city,  are  shut  up  from  a  knowledge  of  the 
world,  and  carry  their  simplicity  to  a  pitch  of  unheard-of  extra- 
vagance. London  is  the  only  place  in  which  the  child  grows 
completely  up  into  the  man.  I  have  known  characters  of  this 
kind,  which,  in  the  way  of  childish  ignorance  and  self-pleasing 
delusion,  exceeded  anything  to  be  met  with  in  Shakspeare  or  Ben 
Jonson,  or  the  old  comedy.  For  instance,  the  following  may  be 
taken  as  a  true  sketch.  Imagine  a  person  with  a  florid,  shining 
complexion  like  a  plough-boy,  large  staring  teeth,  a  merry  eye, 
his  hair  stuck  into  the  fashion  with  curling-irons  and  pomatum, 

20 


58  TABLE  TALK. 


a  slender  figure,  and  a  decent  suit  of  black — add  to  which  the 
Jioughtlessness  of  the  school-boy,  the  forwardness  of  the  thriving 
tradesman,  and  the  plenary  consciousness  of  the  citizen  of  Lon- 
don— and  you  have  Mr.  Dunster  before  you,  the  fishmonger  in  the 
Poultry.  You  shall  hear  how  he  chirps  over  his  cups,  and  exults 
in  his  private  opinions.  "  I'll  play  no  more  with  you,"  I  said, 
"  Mr.  Dunster — you  are  five  points  in  the  game  better  than  I  am." 
I  had  just  lost  three  half-crown  rubbers  at  cribbage  to  him,  which 
loss  of  mine  he  presently  thrust  into  a  canvas  pouch  (not  a  silk 
purse)  out  of  which  he  had  produced  just  before,  first  a  few  half- 
pence, then  half  a  dozen  pieces  of  silver,  then  a  handful  of  gui- 
neas, and  lastly,  lying  perdu  at  the  bottom,  a  fifty-pound  bank- 
note. "  I'll  tell  you  what,"  I  said,  "  I  should  like  to  play  you  a 
game  at  marbles" — this  was  a  sort  of  Christmas  party  or  Twelfth 
Night  merry-making.  "  Marbles !"  said  Dunster,  catching  up 
the  sound,  and  his  eye  brightening  with  childish  glee,  "  What ! 
you  mean  ring-taw?"  "Yes."  "I  should  beat  you  at  it  to 
a  certainty .  1  was  one  of  the  best  in  our  school  (it  was  at  Clap- 
ham,  sir,  the  Rev.  Mr.  Denman's,  at  Clapham,  was  the  place 
where  I  was  brought  up)  though  there  were  two  others  there  better 
than  me.  They  were  the  best  that  ever  were.  I'll  tell  you,  sir, 
I'll  give  you  an  idea.  There  was  a  water-butt  or  cistern,  sir,  at 
our  school,  that  turned  with  a  cock.  Now  suppose  that  brass- 
ring  which  the  window-curtain  is  fastened  to,  to  be  the  cock,  and 
that  these  boys  were  standing  where  we  are,  about  twenty  feet 
off — well,  sir,  I'll  tell  you  what  I  have  seen  them  do.  One  of 
them  had  a  favorite  taw  (or  alley  we  used  to  call  them)  ;  he'd  take 
aim  at  the  cock  of  the  cistern  with  this  marble,  as  I  may  do  now. 
Well,  sir,  will  you  believe  it  ?  such  was  his  strength  of  knuckle 
and  certainty  of  aim,  he'd  hit  it,  turn  it,  let  the  water  out,  and 
then,  sir,  when  the  water  had  run  out  as  much  as  it  wanted,  the 
other  boy  (he'd  just  the  same  strength  of  knuckle,  and  the  same 
certainty  of  eye)  he'd  aim  at  it  too,  be  sure  to  hit  it,  turn  it  round, 
and  stop  the  water  from  running  out.  Yes,  what  I  tell  you  is 
very  remarkable,  but  it's  true.  One  of  these  boys  was  named 
Cock,  and  t'  other  Butler."  "  They  might  have  been  named 
Spigot  and  Fawcett,  my  dear  sir,  from  your  account  of  them." 
"  I  should  not  mind  playing  you  at  fives  neither,  though  I'm  ojxt 


ON  LONDONERS  AND  COUNTRY  PEOPLE.  59 

of  practice.  I  think  I  should  beat  you  in  a  week :  I  was  a  real 
good  one  at  that.  A  pretty  game,  sir !  I  had  the  finest  ball  that 
I  suppose  ever  was  seen.  Made  it  myself,  I'll  tell  you  how,  sir. 
You  see,  I  put  a  piece  of  cork  at  the  bottom,  then  I  wound  some 
fine  worsted  yarn  round  it,  then  I  had  to  bind  it  round  with  some 
packthread,  and  then  sew  the  case  on.  You'd  hardly  believe  it, 
but  I  was  the  envy  of  the  whole  school  for  that  ball.  They  all 
wanted  to  get  it  from  me,  but  lord,  sir,  I  would  let  none  of  them 
come  near  it.  I  kept  it  in  my  waistcoat  pocket  all  day,  and  at 
night  I  used  to  take  it  to  bed  with 'me  and  put  it  under  my  pil- 
low.    I  could  n't  sleep  easy  without  it." 

The  same  idle  vein  might  be  found  in  the  country,  but  I  doubt 
whether  it  would  find  a  tongue  to  give  it  utterance.  Cockneyism 
is  a  ground  of  native  shallowness  mounted  with  pertness  and 
conceit.  Yet  with  all  this  simplicity  and  extravagance  in  dilating 
on  his  favorite  topics,  Dunster  is  a  man  of  spirit,  of  attention  to 
business,  knows  how  to  make  out  and  get  in  his  bills,  and  is  far 
from  being  hen-pecked.  One  thing  is  certain,  that  such  a  man 
must  be  a  true  Englishman  and  a  loyal  subject.  He  has  a  slight 
tinge,  of  letters,  with  shame  I  confess  it — has  in  his  possession  a 
volume  of  the  European  Magazine  for  the  year  1761,  and  is  an 
humble  admirer  of  Tristram  Shandy  (particularly  the  story  of 
the  King  of  Bohemia  and  his  Seven  Castles,  which  is  something  in 
his  own  endless  manner)  and  of  Gil  Bias  of  Santillane.  Over 
these  (the  last  thing  before  he  goes  to  bed  at  night)  he  smokes  a 
pipe,  and  meditates  for  an  hour.  After  all,  what  is  there  in  these 
harmless  half-lies,  these  fantastic  exaggerations,  but  a  literal, 
prosaic,  Cockney  translation  of  the  admired  lines  in  Gray's  Od<> 
to  Eton  College  : — 

"  What  idle  progeny  succeed 
To  chase  the  rolling  circle's  speed 
Or  urge  the  flying  ball  ?" 

A  man  shut  up  all  his  life  in  his  shop,  without  anything  to  interes 
him  from  one  year's  end  to  another  but  the  cares  and  details  of 
business,  with  scarcely  any  intercourse  with  books  or  opportunities 
tor  society,  distracted  with  the  buzz  and  glare  and  noise  about 
him,  turns  for  relief  to  the  retrospect  of  his  childish  years  :  ant* 
20* 


60  TABLE  TALK. 


there,  through  the  long  vista,  at  one  bright  loop-hole,  leading  out 
of  the  thorny  mazes  of  the  world  into  the  clear  morning  light,  he 
sees  the  idle  fancies  and  gay  amusements  of  his  boyhood  dancing 
like  motes  in  the  sunshine.  Shall  we  blame  or  shall  we  laugh  at 
him,  if  his  eye  glistens,  and  his  tongue  grows  wanton  in  their 
praise  ? 

None  but  a  Scotchman  would — that  pragmatical  sort  of  person- 
age, who  thinks  it  a  folly  ever  to  have  been  young,  and  who,  in- 
stead  of  dallying  with  the  frail  past,  bends  his  brows  upon  the 
future,  and  looks  only  to  the  main-chance.  Forgive  me,  dear 
Dunster,  if  I  have  drawn  a  sketch  of  some  of  thy  venial  foibles, 
and  delivered  thee  into  the  hands  of  these  Cockneys  of  the  North, 
who  will  fall  upon  thee  and  devour  thee,  like  so  many  cannibals, 
without  a  grain  of  salt ! 

If  familiarities  in  cities  breed  contempt,  ignorance  in  the  coun- 
try breeds  aversion  and  dislike.  People  come  too  much  in  con- 
tact  in  town :  in  other  places  they  live  too  much  apart,  to  unite 
cordially  and  easily.  Our  feelings,  in  the  former  case,  are  dissi- 
pated and  exhausted  by  being  called  into  constant  and  vain  acti- 
vity ;  in  the  latter  they  rust  and  grow  dead  for  want  of  use.  If 
there  is  an  air  of  levity  and  indifference  in  London  manners,  there 
is  a  harshness,  a  moroseness,  and  disagreeable  restraint  in  those  of 
the  country.  We  have  little  disposition  to  sympathy,  when  we 
have  few  persons  to  sympathize  with  :  we  lose  the  relish  and  capa- 
city for  social  enjoyment  the  seldomer  we  meet.  A  habit  of  sul- 
lenness,  coldness,  and  misanthropy  grows  upon  us.  If  we  look 
for  hospitality  and  a  cheerful  welcome  in  country  places,  it  must 
be  in  those  where  the  arrival  of  a  stranger  is  an  event,  the  recur- 
rence of  which  need  not  be  greatly  apprehended,  or  it  must  be  on 
rare  occasions,  on  "  some  high  festival  of  once  a  year."  Then 
indeed  the  stream  of  hospitality,  so  long  dammed  up,  may  flow 
without  stint  for  a  short  season  ;  or  a  stranger  may  be  expected  with 
the  same  sort  of  eager  impatience  as  a  caravan  of  wild  beasts,  or 
any  other  natural  curiosity,  that  excites  our  wonder  and  fills  up 
the  craving  of  the  mind  after  novelty.  By  degrees,  however, 
even  this  last  principle  loses  its  effect :  books,  newspapers,  what- 
ever carries  us  out  of  ourselves  into  a  world  of  which  we  see 
and  know  nothing,  become  distasteful,  repulsive ;  and  we  turn 


ON  LONDONERS  AND  COUNTRY  PEOPLE.  6 

away  with  indifference  and  disgust  from  everything  that  disturbs 
our  lethargic  animal  existence,  or  takes  off  our  attention  from  our 
petty  local  interests  and  pursuits.  Man,  left  long  to  himself,  is 
no  better  than  a  mere  clod  ;  or  his  activity,  for  want  of  some  other 
vent,  preys  upon  himself,  or  is  directed  to  splenetic,  peevish  dis- 
likes, or  vexatious,  harassing  persecution  of  others.  I  once  drew 
a  picture  of  country-life ;  it  was  a  portrait  of  a  particular  place, 
a  caricature  if  you  will,  but  with  certain  allowances,  I  fear  it  was 
too  like  in  the  individual  instance,  and  that  it  would  hold  too  gene- 
rally true.     See  Round  Table,  vol.  ii.,  p.  116. 

If  these  then  are  the  faults  and  vices  of  the  inhabitants  of  town 
or  of  the  country,  where  should  a  man  go  to  live,  so  as  to  escape 
from  them  ?  I  answer,  that  in  the  country  we  have  the  society 
of  the  groves,  the  fields,  the  brooks,  and  in  London  a  man  may 
keep  to  himself,  or  choose  his  company  as  he  pleases. 

It  appears  to  me  that  there  is  an  amiable  mixture  of  these  two 
opposite  characters  in  a  person  who  chances  to  have  passed  his  youth 
in  London,  and  who  has  retired  into  the  country  for  the  rest  of  his 
life.  We  may  find  in  such  a  one  a  social  polish,  a  pastoral  sim- 
plicity. He  rusticates  agreeably,  and  vegetates  with  a  degree  of 
sentiment.  He  comes  to  the  next  post-town  to  see  for  letters, 
watches  the  coaches  as  they  pass,  and  eyes  the  passengers  with  a 
look  of  familiar  curiosity,  thinking  that  he  too  was  a  gay  fellow 
in  his  time.  He  turns  his  horse's  head  down  the  narrow  lane 
that  leads  homewards,  puts  on  an  old  coat  to  save  his' wardrobe, 
and  fills  his  glass  nearer  to  the  brim.  As  he  lifts  the  purple  juice 
to  his  lips  and  to  his  eye,  and  in  the  dim  solitude  that  hems  him 
round,  thinks  of  the  glowing  line — 

"  This  bottle 's  the  sun  of  our  table" — 

another  sun  rises  upon  his  imagination  ;  the  sun  of  his  youth,  the 
blaze  of  vanity,  the  glitter  of  the  metropolis,  "  glares  round  his 
soul,  and  mocks  his  closing  eye-lids."  The  distant  roar  of 
coaches  is  in  his  ears — the  pit  stare  upon  him  with  a  thousand 
eyes — Mrs.  Siddons,  Bannister,  King,  are  before  him — he  starts, 
as  from  a  dream,  and  swears  he  will  to  London ;  but  the  ex- 
pense, the  length  of  way  deters  him,  and  he  rises  the  next  morn- 


62  TABLE  TALK 


ing  to  trace  the  footsteps  of  the  hare  that  has  brushed  the  dew. 
drops  from  the  lawn,  or  to  attend  a  meeting  of  Magistrates  !  Mr. 
Justice  Shallow  answered  in  some  sort  to  this  description  of  a 
retired  Cockney  and  indigenous  country-gentleman.  He  "  knew 
the  Inns  of  Court,  where  they  would  talk  of  mad  Shallow  yet, 
and  where  the  bona  robas  were,  and  had  them  at  commandment : 
aye,  and  had  heard  the  chimes  at  midnight !" 

It  is  a  strange  state  of  society  (such  as  that  in  London)  where 
a  man  does  not  know  his  next-door  neighbor,  and  where  the  feel- 
ings  (one  would  think)  must  recoil  upon  themselves,  and  either 
fester  or  become  obtuse.  Mr.  Wordsworth,  in  the  preface  to  his 
poem  of  the  "Excursion,"  represents  men  in  cities  as  so  many 
wild  beasts  or  evil  spirits,  shut  up  in  cells  of  ignorance,  without 
natural  affections,  and  barricadoed  down  in  sensuality  and  selfish- 
ness. The  nerve  of  humanity  is  bound  up,  according  to  him,  the 
circulation  of  the  blood  stagnates.  And  it  would  be  so,  if  men 
were  merely  cut  off  from  intercourse  with  their  immediate  neigh- 
bors, and  did  not  meet  together  generally  and  more  at  large.  But 
man  in  London  becomes,  as  Mr.  Burke  has  it,  a  sort  of  "  public 
creature."  He  lives  in  the  eye  of  the  world,  and  the  world  in  his. 
If  he  witnesses  less  of  the  details  of  private  life,  he  has  better  op- 
portunities of  observing  its  larger  masses  and  varied  movements. 
He  sees  the  stream  of  human  life  pouring  along  the  streets — its 
comforts  and  embellishments  piled  up  in  the  shops — the  houses  are 
proofs  of  the  industry,  the  public  buildings  of  the  art  and  magnifi- 
cence of  man  ;  while  the  public  amusements  and  places  of  resort 
are  a  centre  and  support  for  social  feeling.  A  playhouse  alone  is 
a  school  of  humanity,  where  all  eyes  are  fixed  on  the  same  gay 
or  solemn  scene,  where  smiles  or  tears  are  spread  from  face  to 
face,  and  where  a  thousand  hearts  beat  in  unison  !  Look  at  the 
company  in  a  country  theatre  (in  comparison)  and  see  the  cold- 
ness, the  sullenness,  the  want  of  sympathy,  and  the  way  in  which 
they  turn  round  to  scan  and  scrutinize  one  another.  In  London 
there  is  a  public  ;  and  each  man  is  part  of  it.  We  are  gregarious, 
and  affect  the  kind.  We  have  a  sort  of  abstract  existence  ;  and 
a  community  of  ideas  and  knowledge  (rather  than  local  proximity) 
is  the  bond  of  society  and  good-fellowship.  This  is  one  great 
cause  of  the  tone  of  political  feeling  in  large  and  populous  cities. 


ON  LONDONERS  AND  COUNTRY  PEOPLE. 


There  is  here  a  visible  body-politic,  a  type  and  image  of  that  huge 
Leviathan  the  State.  We  comprehend  that  vast  denomination, 
the  People,  of  which  we  see  a  tenth  part  daily  moving  before  us  ; 
and  by  having  our  imaginations  emancipated  from  petty  interests 
and  personal  dependence,  we  learn  to  venerate  ourselves  as  men, 
and  to  respect  the  rights  of  human  nature.  Therefore  it  is  that 
the  citizens  and  freemen  of  London  and  Westminster  are  patriots 
by  prescription,  philosophers  and  politicians  by  the  right  of  their 
birth-place.  In  the  country,  men  are  no  better  than  a  herd  of  cat- 
tle or  scattered  deer.  They  have  no  idea  but  of  individuals,  none 
of  rights  or  principles — and  a  king,  as  the  greatest  individual,  is 
the  highest  idea  they  can  form.  He  is  "  a  species  alone,"  and  as 
superior  to  any  single  peasant  as  the  latter  is  to  the  peasant's  dog. 
or  to  a  crow  flying  over  his  head.  In  London  the  king  is  but  as 
one  to  a  million  (numerically  speaking),  is  seldom  seen,  and  then 
distinguished  only  from  others  by  the  superior  graces  of  his  person. 
A  country  'squire  or  a  lord  of  the  manor  is  a  greater  man  in  his 
village  or  hundred ! 


<54  TABLE  TALK. 


ESSAY  VI. 

On  living  to  one's-self.*. 

•'  Remote,  unfriended,  melancholy,  slow, 
Or  by  the  lazy  Scheldt  or  wandering  Po." 

I  never  was  in  a  better  place  or  humor  than  I  am  at  present  fbi* 
writing  on  this  subject.  I  have  a  partridge  getting  ready  for  my 
supper,  my  fire  is  blazing  on  the  hearth,  the  air  is  mild  for  the 
season  of  the  year,  I  have  had  but  a  slight  fit  of  indigestion  to- 
day (the  only  thing  that  makes  me  abhor  myself),  I  have  three 
hours  good  before  me,  and  therefore  I  will  attempt  it.  It  is  as 
well  to  do  it  at  once  as  to  have  it  to  do  for  a  week  to  come. 

If  the  writing  on  this  subject  is  no  easy  task,  the  thing  itself  is 
a  harder  one.  It  asks  a  troublesome  effort  to  ensure  the  admira- 
tion of  others  :  it  is  a  still  greater  one  to  be  satisfied  with  one's 
own  thoughts.  As  I  look  from  the  window  at  the  wide  bare  heath 
before  me,  and  through  the  misty  moon-light  air  see  the  woods 
that  wave  over  the  top  of  Winterslow, 

"  While  Heav'n's  chancel- vault  is  blind  with  sleet," 

my  mind  takes  its  flight  through  too  long  a  series  of  years,  sup- 
ported only  by  the  patience  of  thought  and  secret  yearnings  after 
truth  and  good,  for  me  to  be  at  a  loss  to  understand  the  feeling  I 
intend  to  write  about ;  but  I  do  not  know  that  this  will  enable  me 
to  convey  it  more  agreeably  to  the  reader. 

Lady  G.,  in  a  letter  to  Miss  Harriet  Byron,  assures  her  that 
"  her  brother  Sir  Charles  lived  to  himself:"  and  Lady  L.  soon 
after  (for  Richardson  was  never  tired  of  a  good  thing)  repeats  the 

•     *  Written  at  Winterslow  Hut,  January  18th— 19th,  1891. 


ON  LIVING  TO  ONE'S  SELF  65 

same  observation  ;  to  which  Miss  Byron  frequently  returns  in  her 
answers  to  both  sisters — "  For  you  know  Sir  Charles  lives  to  him- 
self," till  at  length  it  passes  into  a  proverb  among  the  fair  corres- 
pondents. This  is  not,  however,  an  example  of  what  I  under- 
stand by  living  to  one's-self,  for  Sir  Charles  Grandison  was  indeed 
always  thinking  of  himself;  but  by  this  phrase  I  mean  never 
thinking  at  all  about  one's-self,  any  more  than  if  there  was  no 
such  person  in  existence.  The  character  I  speak  of  is  as  little 
of  an  egotist  as  possible  :  Richardson's  great  favorite  was  as  much 
of  one  as  possible.  Some  satirical  critic  has  represented  him  in 
Elysium  "  bowing  over  the  'faded  hand  of  Lady  Grandison  "  (Miss 
Byron  that  was) — he  ought  to  have  been  represented  bowing  over 
his  own  hand,  for  he  never  admired  any  one  but  himself,  and  was 
the  god  of  his  own  idolatry.  Neither  do  I  call  it  living  to  one's- 
self  to  retire  into  a  desert  (like  the  saints  and  martyrs  of  old)  to 
be  devoured  by  wild  beasts,  nor  to  descend  into  a  cave  to  be  con- 
sidered as  a  hermit,  nor  to  get  to  the  top  of  a  pillar  of  rock  to  do 
fanatic  penance  and  be  seen  of  all  men.  What  I  mean  by  living 
to  one's-self  is  living  in  the  world,  as  in  it,  not  of  it :  it  is  as  if  no 
one  knew  there  was  such  a  person,  and  you  wish  no  one  to  know 
it :  it  is  to  be  a  silent  spectator  of  the  mighty  scene,  of  things,  not 
an  object  of  attention  or  curiosity  in  it ;  to  take  a  thoughtful, 
anxious  interest  in  what  is  passing  in  the  world,  but  not  to  feel 
the  slightest  inclination  to  make  or  meddle  with  it.  It  is  such  a 
life  as  a  pure  spirit  might  be  supposed  to  lead,  and  such  an  inte- 
rest as  it  might  take  in  the  affairs  of  men,  calm,  contemplative, 
passive,  distant,  touched  with  pity  for  their  sorrows,  smiling  at 
their  follies  without  bitterness,  sharing  their  affections,  but  not 
troubled  by  their  passions,  not  seeking  their  notice,  nor  once 
dreamt  of  by  them.  He  who  lives  wisely  to  himself  and  to  his 
own  heart,  looks  at  the  bu-y  world  through  the  loop-holes  of  re- 
treat, and  does  not  want  to  mingle  in  the  fray.  "  He  hears  the 
tumult,  and  is  still."  He  is  not  able  to  mend  it,  nor  willing  to 
mar  it.  He  sees  enough  in  the  universe  to  interest  him  without 
putting  himself  forward  to  try  what  he  can  do  to  fix  the  eyes  of 
the  universe  upon  him.  Vain  the  attempt !  He  reads  the 
clouds,  he  looks  at  the  stars,  he  watches  the  return  of  the  sea- 
sons,  the    falling    leaves   of  autumn,  the  perfumed    breath    of 

SECOND    SERIES — PART  I.  0 


66  TABLE  TALK. 


spring,  starts  with  delight  at  the  note  of  a  thrush  in  a  copse 
near  him,  sits  by  the  fire,  listens  to  the  moanings  of  the  wind, 
pores  upon  a  book,  or  discourses  the  freezing  hours  away,  or 
melts  down  hours  to  minutes  in  pleasing  thought.  All  this 
while  he  is  taken  up  with  other  things,  forgetting  himself.  He 
relishes  an  author's  style,  without  thinking  of  turning  author. 
He  is  fond  of  looking  at  a  print  from  an  old  picture  in  the 
room,  without  teasing  himself  to  copy  it.  He  does  not  fret  him- 
self to  death  with  trying  to  be  what  he  is  not,  or  to  do  what 
he  cannot.  He  hardly  knows  what  he  is  capable  of,  and  is  not 
in  the  least  concerned  whether  he  shall  ever  make  a  figure 
in  the  world.     He  feels  the  truth  of  the  lines — 

"  The  man  whose  eye  is  on  himself, 
Doth  look  on  one,  the  least  of  nature's  works ; 
One  who  might  move  the  wise  man  to  that  scorn 
Which  wisdom  holds  unlawful  ever  " — 

ne  looks  out  of  himself  at  the  wide  extended  prospect  of  nature, 
and  takes  an  interest  beyond  his  narrow  pretensions  in  general 
humanity.  He  is  free  as  air,  and  independent  as  the  wind. 
Wo  be  to  hjm  when  he  first  begins  to  think  what  others  say 
of  him.  While  a  man  is  contented  with  himself  and  his  own 
resources,  all  is  well.  When  he  undertakes  to  play  a  part  on 
the  stage,  and  to  persuade  the  world  to  think  more  about  him 
than  they  do  about  themselves,  he  is  got  into  a  track  where  he 
will  find  nothing  but  briars  and  thorns,  vexations  and  disap- 
pointment. I  can  speak  a  little  to  this  point.  For  many  years 
of  my  life  I  did  nothing  but  think.  I  had  nothing  else  to  do 
but  to  solve  some  knotty  point,  or  dip  in  some  abstruse  author, 
or  look  at  the  sky,  or  wander  by  the  pebbled  sea-side — 

"  To  see  the  children  sporting  on  the  shore, 
And  hear  the  mighty  waters  rolling  evermore." 

I  cared  for  nothing,  I  wanted  nothing.  I  took  my  time  to  con- 
sider whatever  occurred  to  me,  and  was  in  no  hurry  to  give  a 
sophistical  answer  to  a  question — there  was  no  printer's  devil 
waiting  for  me.  I  used  to  write  a  page  or  two  perhaps  in  half  & 
year ;  and  remember  laughing  heartily  at  the  celebrated  experi- 


ON  LIVING  TO  ONE'S  SELF.  67 

mentalist  Nicholson,  who  told  me  that  in  twenty  years  he  h&d 
written  as  much  as  would  make  three  hundred  octavo  volumes. 
If  1  was  not  a  great  author,  I  could  read  with  ever  fresh  delight, 
"  never  ending,  still  beginning,"  and  had  no  occasion  to  write  a 
criticism  when  I  had  done.  If  I  could  not  paint  like  Claude,  I 
could  admire  "  the  witchery  of  the  soft  blue  sky  "  as  I  walked 
out,  and  was  satisfied  with  the  pleasure  it  gave  me.  If  I  was 
dull,  it  gave  me  little  concern :  if  I  was  lively,  I  indulged  my 
spirits.  I  wished  well  to  the  world,  and  believed  as  favorably  of  it 
as  I  could.  I  was  like  a  stranger  in  a  foreign  land,  at  which  1 
looked  with  wonder,  curiosity  and  delight,  without  expecting  to 
be  an  object  of  attention  in  return.  I  had  no  relations  to  the 
state,  no  duty  to  perform,  no  ties  to  bind  me  to  others  ;  I  had 
neither  friend  nor  mistress,  wife  nor  child.  I  lived  in  a  world  of 
contemplation,  and  not  of  action. 

This  sort  of  dreaming  existence  is  the  best.  He  who  quits  it 
to  go  in  search  of  realities,  generally  barters  repose  for  repeated 
disappointments  and  vain  regrets.  His  time,  thoughts,  and  feel- 
ings are  no  longer  at  his  own  disposal.  From  that  instant  he 
does  not  survey  the  objects  of  nature  as  they  are  in  themselves, 
but  looks  asquint  at  them  to  see  whether  he  cannot  make  them 
the  instruments  of  his  ambition,  interest,  or  pleasure  ;  for  a  can- 
did, undesigning,  undisguised  simplicity  of  character,  his  views 
become  jaundiced,  sinister,  and  double :  he  takes  no  farther  inte- 
rest in  the  great  changes  of  the  world  but  as  he  has  a  paltry 
share  in  producing  them  :  instead  of  opening  his  senses,  his  un- 
derstanding, and  his  heart  to  the  resplendent  fabric  of  the  uni- 
verse, he  holds  a  crooked  mirror  before  his  face,  in  which  he  may 
admire  his  own  person  and  pretensions,  and  just  glance  his  eye 
aside  to  see  whether  others  are  not  admiring  him  too.  He  no 
more  exists  in  the  impression  which  "  the  fair  variety  of  things  " 
makes  upon  him,  softened  and  subdued  by  habitual  contempla- 
tion, but  in  the  feverish  sense  of  his  own  upstart  self-importance. 
By  aiming  to  fix,  he  is  become  the  slave  of  opinion.  He  is  a 
tool,  a  part  of  a  machine  that  never  stands  still,  and  is  sick  and 
giddy  with  the  ceaseless  motion.  He  has  no  satisfaction  but  ir 
tne  reflection  of  his  own  image  in  the  public  gaze,  but  in  the 
repetition  of  his  own  name  in  the  public,  ear.      He  himself  is 


68  TABLE  TALK. 


mixed  up  with,  and  spoils  everything.  I  wonder  Buonaparte  was 
not  tired  of  the  N.  N.'s  stuck  all  over  the  Louvre  and  through, 
out  France.  Goldsmith  (as  we  all  know),  when  in  Holland, 
went  out  into  a  balcony  with  some  handsome  Englishwomen,  and 
on  their  being  applauded  by  the  spectators,  turned  round,  and 
said  peevishly — "  There  are  places  where  I  also  am  admired." 
He  could  not  give  the  craving  appetite  of  an  author's  vanity  one 
day's  respite.  I  have  seen  a  celebrated  talker  of  our  own  time 
turn  pale  and  go  out  of  the  room  when  a  showy-looking  girl  has 
come  into  it,  who  for  a  moment  divided  the  attention  of  his  hear- 
ers. Infinite  are  the  mortifications  of  the  bare  attempt  to  emerge 
from  obscurity ;  numberless  the  failures ;  and  greater  and  more 
galling  still  the  vicissitudes  and  tormenting  accompaniments  oe 
success — 

— "  Whose  top  to  climb 
Is  certain  falling,  or  so  slippery,  that 
The  fear's  bad  as  the  falling." 

"Would  to  God,"  exclaimed  Oliver  Cromwell,  when  he  was  a. 
any  time  thwarted  by  the  Parliament,  "  that  I  had  remained  by 
my  woodside  to  tend  a  flock  of  sheep,  rather  than  have  been 
thrust  on  such  a  government  as  this !"  When  Buonaparte  got 
into  his  carriage  to  proceed  on  his  Russian  expedition,  carelessly 
twirling  his  glove,  and  singing  the  air — "  Malbrook  to  the  wars  is 
going" — he  did  not  think  of  the  tumble  he  has  got  since,  the 
shock  of  which  no  one  could  have  stood  but  himself.  We  see  and 
hear  chiefly  of  the  favorites  of  Fortune  and  the  Muse,  of  great 
generals,  of  first-rate  actors,  of  celebrated  poets.  These  are  at 
the  head  ;  we  are  struck  with  the  glittering  eminence  on  which 
they  stand,  and  long  to  set  out  on  the  same  tempting  career : — not 
thinking  how  many  discontented  half-pay  lieutenants  are  in  vain 
seeking  promotion  all  their  lives,  and  obliged  to  put  up  with  "  the 
insolence  of  office,  and  the  spurns  which  patient  merit  of  the  un- 
worthy takes ;"  how  many  half-starved  strolling  players  are 
doomed  to  penury  and  tattered  robes  in  country-places,  dreaming 
to  the  last  of  a  London  engagement ;  how  many  wretched  daubers 
shiver  and  shake  in  the  ague-fit  of  alternate  hopes  and  fears, 
waste  and    pine  away   in  the   atrophy  of  genius,  or  else    turn 


ON  LIVING  TO  ONE'S  SELF.  69 


drawing-masters,  picture-cleaners,  or  newspaper  critics  ;  how 
many  hapless  poets  have  sighed  out  their  souls  to  the  Muse  in 
vain,  without  ever  getting  their  effusions  farther  known  than  the 
Poet's-Corner  Of  a  country  newspaper,  and  looked  and  looked 
with  grudging,  wistful  eyes  at  the  envious  horizon  that  bounded 
their  provincial  fame  1  Suppose  an  actor,  for  instance,  "  after  the 
heart-aches  and  the  thousand  natural  pangs  that  flesh  is  heir  to," 
does  get  at  the  top  of  his  profession,  he  can  no  longer  bear  a  rival 
near  the  throne  ;  to  be  second,  or  only  equal  to  another,  is  to  be 
nothing :  he  starts  at  the  prospect  of  a  successor,  and  retains  the 
mimic  sceptre  with  a  convulsive  grasp :  perhaps  as  he  is  about  to 
seize  the  first  place  which  he  has  long  had  in  his  eye,  an  unsus- 
pected competitor  steps  in  before  him,  and  carries  ofF  the  prize, 
leaving  him  to  commence  his  irksome  toil  again  :  he  is  in  a  state 
of  alarm  at  every  appearance  or  rumor  of  the  appearance  of  a 
new  actor ;  a  "  mouse  that  takes  up  his  lodging  in  a  cat's  ear  "  * 
has  a  mansion  of  peace  to  him  :  he  dreads  every  hint  of  an  ob- 
jection, and  least  of  all  can  forgive  praise  mingled  with  censure  : 
to  doubt  is  to  insult,  to  discriminate  is  to  degrade  :  he  dare  hardly 
look  into  a  criticism  unless  some  one  has  tasted  it  for  him,  to  see 
that  there  is  no  offence  in  it :  if  he  does  not  draw  crowded  houses 
every  night,  he  can  neither  eat  nor  sleep  ;  or  if  all  these  terrible 
inflictions  are  removed,  and  he  can  "  eat  his  meal  in  peace,"  he 
then  becomes  surfeited  with  applause  and  dissatisfied  with  his 
profession  :  he  wants  to  be  something  else,  to  be  distinguished  as 
an  author,  a  collector,  a  classical  scholar,  a  man  of  sense  and 
information,  and  weighs  every  word  he  utters,  and  half  retracts 
it  before  he  utters  it,  lest  if  he  were  to  make  the  smallest  slip  of 

the  tongue,  it  should  get  buzzed  abroad  that  Mr. was  only 

clever  as  an  actor  !  If  ever  there  was  a  man  who  did  not  derive 
more  pain  than  pleasure  from  his  vanity,  that  man,  says  Rousseau 
was  no  other  than  a  fool.  A  country-gentleman  near  Taunton 
spent  his  whole  life  in  making  some  hundreds  of  wretched  copies 
of  second-rate  pictures,  which  were  bought  up  at  his  death  by  • 
neighboring  Baronet,  to  whom 

M  Some  demon  whisper'd,  L ,  have  a  taste !" 

*  Webster's  Duchess  of  Malfy. 


TABLE  TALK. 


A  little  Wilson  in  an  obscure  corner  escaped  the  man  of  virtu, 
and  was  carried  off  by  a  Bristol  picture-dealer  for  three  guineas, 
while  the  muddled  copies  of  the  owner  of  the  mansion  (with  the 
*rames)  fetched  thirty,  forty,  sixty,  a  hundred  ducats  a-piece.  A 
friend  of  mine  found  a  very  fine  Canaletti  in  a  state  of  strange 
disfigurement,  with  the  upper  part  of  the  sky  smeared  over  and 
fantastically  variegated  with  English  clouds ;  and  on  inquiring  of 
the  person  to  whom  it  belonged  whether  something  had  not  been 
done  to  it,  received  for  answer  "  that  a  gentleman,  a  great  artist 
in  the  neighborhood,  had  retouched  some  parts  of  it."  What 
infatuation !  Yet  this  candidate  for  the  honors  of  the  pencil 
might  probably  have  made  a  jovial  fox-hunter  or  respectable 
justice  of  the  peace,  if  he  could  only  have  stuck  to  what  nature 

and  fortune  intended  him  for.     Miss can  by  no  means  be 

persuaded  to  quit  the  boards  of  the  theatre  at ,  a  little  country 

town  in  the  West  of  England.  Her  salary  has  been  abridged, 
her  person  ridiculed,  her  acting  laughed  at ;  nothing  will  serve — 
she  is  determined  to  be  an  actress,  and  scorns  to  return  to  her 
former  business  as  a  millinej".  Shall  I  go  on  ?  An  actor  in  the 
same  company  was  visited  by  the  apothecary  of  the  place  in  an 
ague-fit,  who,  on  asking  his  landlady  as  to  his  way  of  life,  was 
told  that  the  poor  gentleman  was  very  quiet  and  gave  little  trouble, 
that  he  generally  had  a  plate  of  mashed  potatoes  for  his  dinner, 
and  lay  in  bed  most  of  his  time,  repeating  his  part.  A  young 
couple,  every  way  amiable  and  deserving,  were  to  have  been 
married,  and  a  benefit-play  was  bespoke  by  the  officers  of  the 
regiment  quartered  there,  to  defray  the  expense  of  a  license  and 
of  the  wedding-ring,  but  the  profits  of  the  night  did  not  amount  to 
the  necessary  sum,  and  they  have,  I  fear,  "  virgined  it  e'er  since  !" 
Oh   for  the   pencil  of  Hogarth  or  Wilkie  to  give  a  view  of  the 

comic  strength  of  the  company  at ,  drawn  up  in  battle-array 

in  the  Clandestine  Marriage,  with  a  coup-d'oeil  of  the  pit,  boxes, 
and  gallery,  to  cure  for  ever  the  love  of  the  ideal,  and  the  desire 
to  shine  and  make  holiday  in  the  eyes  of  others,  instead  of  retir- 
ing within  ourselves  and  keeping  our  wishes  and  our  thoughts  at 
home ! 

Even  in  the  common  affairs  of  life,  in  love,  friendship,  and 
marriage,  how  little  security  have  we  when  we  trust  our  happiness 


ON  LIVING  TO  ONE'S  SELF.  71 


in  the  hands  of  others!  Most  of  the  friends  I  have  seen  have  turned 
out  the  bitterest  enemies,  or  cold,  uncomfortable  acquaintance. 
Old  companions  are  like  meats  served  up  too  often,  that  lose  their 
relish  and  their  wholegomeness.  He  who  looks  at  beauty  to  ad- 
mire, to  adore  it,  who  reads  of  its  wondrous  power  in  novels,  in 
poems,  or  in  plays,  is  not  unwise :  but  let  no  man  fall  in  love,  for 
from  that  moment  he  is  "  the  baby  of  a  girl."  I  like  very  well 
to  repeat  such  lines  as  these  in  the*play  of  Mirandola — 

— "  With  what  a  waving  air  she  goes 
/Jong  the  corridor.     How  like  a  fawn  ! 
Yet  statelier.     Hark !     No  sound,  however  soft, 
Nor  gentlest  echo  telleth  when  she  treads, 
But  every  motion  of  her  shape  doth  seem 
Hallowed  by  silence  " — 

but  however  beautiful  the  description,  defend  me  from  meeting 
with  the  original ! 

"  The  fly  that  sips  treacle 
Is  lost  in  the  sweets ; 
So  he  that  tastes  woman 
Ruin  meets." 

The  song  is  Gay's,  not  mine,  and  a  bitter-sweet  it  is. — How  few 
out  of  the  infinite  number  of  those  that  marry  and  are  given  in 
marriage,  wed  with  those  they  would  prefer  to  all  the  world  ;  nay, 
how  far  the  greater  proportion  are  joined  together  by  mere  mo- 
tives of  convenience,  accident,  recommendation  of  friends,  or 
indeed  not  unfrequently  by  the  very  fear  of  the  event,  by  repug- 
nance and  a  sort  of  fatal  fascination  :  yet  the  tie  is  for  life,  not  to 
be  shaken  off  but  with  disgrace  or  death :  a  man  no  longer  lives 
to  himself,  but  is  a  body  (as  well  as  mind)  chained  to  another,  in 
spite  of  himself- — 

"  Like  life  and  death  in  disproportion  met." 

So  Milton  (perhaps  from  his  own  experience)  makes  Adam  ex- 
claim, in  the  vehemence  of  his  despair, 

"  For  either 
He  shall  nevei  find  out  fit  mate,  but  such 


78  TABLE  TALK. 


As  some  misfortune  brings  him  or  mistake ; 
Or  whom  he  wishes  most  shall  seldom  gain 
Through  her  perverseness,  but  shall  see  her  gain'd 
By  a  far  worse;  or  if  she  love,  withheld 
By  parents ;  or  his  happiest  choice  too  late 
Shall  meet,  already  link'd  and  wedlock-bound 
To  a  fell  adversary,  his  hate  and  shame ; 
Which  infinite  calamity  shall  cause 
To  human  life,  and  household  peace  confound." 

[f  love  at  first  sight  were  mutual,  or  to  be  conciliated  by  kind 
offices  ;  if  the  fondest  affection  were  not  so  often  repaid  and  chilled 
by  indifference  and  scorn  ;  if  so  many  lovers  both  before  and 
since  the  madman  in  Don  Quixotte  had  not  "  worshipped  a  statue, 
hunted  the  wind,  cried  aloud  to  the  desert;''  if  friendship  were 
lasting ;  if  merit  were  renown,  and  renown  were  health,  riches, 
and  long  life  ;  or  if  the  homage  of  the  world  were  paid  to  con- 
scious worth  and  the  true  aspirations  after  excellence,  instead  of 
its  gaudy  signs  and  outward  trappings  ;  then  indeed  I  might  be  of 
opinion  that  it  is  better  to  live  to  others  than  one's-self ;  but  as  the 
case  stands,  I  incline  to  the  negative  side  of  the  question.*- 

"  I  have  not  loved  the  world,  nor  the  world  me ; 
I  have  not  flattered  its  rank  breath,  nor  bow'd 
To  its  idolatries  a  patient  knee — 
Nor  coin'd  my  cheek  to  smiles — nor  cried  aloud 
In  worship  of  an  echo;  in  the  crowd 
They  could  not  deem  me  one  of  such ;  I  stood 
Among  them,  but  not  of  them ;  in  a  shroud 
Of  thoughts  which  were  not  their  thoughts,  and  still  could, 
Had  I  not  filed  my  mind  which  thus  itself  subdued. 

I  have  not  loved  the  world,  nor  the  world  me — 

But  let  us  part  fair  foes  ;  I  do  believe, 

Though  I  have  found  them  not,  that  there  may  be 

*  Shenstone  and  Gray  were  two  men,  one  of  whom  pretended  to  live  to 
himself,  and  the  other  really  did  so.  Gray  shrank  from  the  public  gaze 
(he  did  not  even  like  his  portrait  to  be  prefixed  to  his  works)  into  his  own 
thoughts  and  indolent  musings ;  Shenstone  affected  privacy,  that  he  mighi 
be  sought  out  by  the  world  ;  the  one  courted  retirement  in  order  to  enjov 
leisure  and  repose,  as  the  other  coquetted  with  it,  merely  to  be  interrupted 
with  the  importunity  of  visitors  and  the  flatteries  of  absent  friends. 


ON  LIVING  TO  ONE'S  SELF.  Hi 

Words  which  are  things — hopes  which  will  not  deceive, 

And  virtues  which  are  merciful  nor  weave 

Snares  for  the  failing :  I  would  also  deem 

O'er  others'  griefs  that  some  sincerely  grieve; 

That  two,  or  one,  are  almost  what  they  seem — 

That  goodness  is  no  name,  and  happiness  no  dream." 

Sweet  verse  embalms  the  spirit  of  sour  misanthropy  :  but  wo 
oetide  the  ignoble  prose-writer  who  should  thus  dare  to  compare 
notes  with  the  world,  or  tax  it  roundly  with  imposture. 

If  I  had  sufficient  provocation  to  rail  at  the  publjc,  as  Ben 
Jonson  did  at  the  audience  in  the  Prologues  to  his  plays,  I  think 
I  should  do  it  in  good  set  terms,  nearly  as  follows.  There  is  not 
a  more  mean,  stupid,  dastardly,  pitiful,  selfish,  spiteful,  envious, 
ungrateful  animal  than  the  Public.  It  is  the  greatest  of  cowards, 
for  it  is  afraid  of  itself.  From  its  unwieldy,  over-grown  dimen- 
sions, it  dreads  the  least  opposition  to  it,  and  shakes  like  isinglass 
at  the  touch  of  a  finger.  It  starts  at  its  own  shadow,  like  the 
man  in  the  Hartz  mountains,  and  trembles  at  the  mention  of  its 
own  name.  It  has  a  lion's  mouth,  the  heart  of  a  hare,  with  ears 
erect  and  sleepless  eyes.  It  stands  "  listening  its  fears."  It  is  so 
in  awe  of  its  own  opinion,  that  it  never  dares  to  form  any,  but 
catches  up  the  first  idle  rumor,  lest  it  should  be  behindhand  in  its 
judgment,  and  echoes  it  till  it  is  deafened  with  the  sound  of  its  own 
voice.  The  idea  of  what  the  public  will  think,  prevents  the  public 
from  ever  thinking  at  all,  and  acts  as  a  spell  on  the  exercise  of 
private  judgment,  so  that  in  short  the  public  ear  is  at  the  mercy 
of  the  first  impudent  pretender  who  chooses  to  fill  it  with  noisy 
assertions,  or  false  surmises,  or  secret  whispers.  What  is  said 
by  one  is  heard  by  all  ;  the  supposition  that  a  thing  is  known  to 
all  the  world  makes  all  the  world  believe  it,  and  the  hollow  repe. 
tition  of  a  vague  report  drowns  the  "  still,  small  voice"  of  rea- 
son. We  may  believe  or  know  that  what  is  said  is  not  true  :  but 
we  know  or  fancy  that  others  believe  it — we  dare  not  contradict 
or  are  too  indolent  to  dispute  with  them,  and  therefore  give  up  our 
internal,  and,  as  we  think,  our  solitary  conviction  to  a  sound  without 
substance,  without  proof,  and  often  without  meaning.  Nay  more,  we 
may  believe  and  know  not  only  that  a  thing  is  false,  but  that  others 
believe  and  know  it  to  be  so,  that  they  are  quite  as  much  in  the 


74  TABLE  TALK. 


oecret  of  the  imposture  as  we  are,  that  they  see  the  puppets  at 
/york,  the  nature  of  the  machinery,  and  yet  if  any  one  has  the 
art  or  power  to  get  the  management  of  it,  he  shall  keep  possession 
of  the  public  ear  by  virtue  of  a  cant-phrase  or  nick-name  ;  and, 
by  dint  of  effrontery  and  perseverance,  make  all  the  world  believe 
and  repeat  what  all  the  world  know  to  be  false.  The  ear  is  quicker 
than  the  judgment.  We  know  that  certain  things  are  said  :  by  that 
circumstance  alone  we  know  that  they  produce  a  certain  effect  on 
the  imagination  of  others,  and  we  conform  to  their  prejudices  by 
mechanical  sympathy,  and  for  want  of  sufficient  spirit  to  differ  with 
them.  So  far  then  is  public  opinion  from  resting  on  a  broad  and 
solid  basis,  as  the  aggregate  of  thought  and  feeling  in  a  commu- 
nity, that  it  is  slight  and  shallow  and  variable  to  the  last  degree 
— the  bubble  of  the  moment — so  that  we  may  safely  say  the  pub- 
lic is  the  dupe  of  public  opinion,  not  its  parent.  The  public  is 
pusillanimous  and  cowardly,  because  it  is  weak.  It  knows  itself 
to  be  a  great  dunce,  and  that  it  has  no  opinions  but  upon  sugges- 
tion. Yet  it  is  unwilling  to  appear  in  leading-strings,  and  would 
have  it  thought  that  its  decisions  are  as  wise  as  they  are  weighty. 
It  is  hasty  in  taking  up  its  favorites,  more  hasty  in  laying  them 
aside,  lest  it  should  be  supposed  deficient  in  sagacity  in  either 
case.  It  is  generally  divided  into  two  strong  parties,  each  of 
which  will  allow  neither  common  sense  nor  common  honesty  to 
the  other  side.  It. reads  the  Edinburgh  and  Quarterly  Reviews, 
and  believes  them  both — or  if  there  is  a  doubt,  malice  turns  the 
scale.  Taylor  and  Hessey  told  me  that  they  had  sold  nearly  two 
editions  of  the  Characters  of  Shakspeare's  Plays  in  about  three 
months,  but  after  the  Quarterly  Review  of  them  came  out,  they 
never  sold  another  copy.  The  public,  enlightened  as  they  are, 
must  have  known  the  meaning  of  that  attack  as  well  as  those 
who  made  it.  It  was  not  ignorance,  then,  but  cowardice  that 
led  them  to  give  up  their  own  opinion.  A  crew  of  mischie- 
ous  critics  at  Edinburgh  having  fixed  the  epithet  of  the  Cock- 
ney School  to  one  or  two  writers  born  in  the  metropolis,  all  the 
people  in  London  became  afraid  of  looking  into  their  works, 
lest  they  too  should  be  convicted  of  cockneyism.  Oh  brave 
public  !  This  epithet  proved  too  much  for  one  of  the  writers 
in  question,  and  stuck  like  a  barbed  arrow  in  his  heart.     Poor 


ON  LIVING  TO  ONE'S  SELF.  75 

Keats  !  Wiiat  was  sport  to  the  town  was  death  to  him.  Young, 
sensitive,  delicate,  he  was  like 

*'  A  bud  bit  by  an  envious  worm, 
Ere  he  could  spread  his  sweet  leaves  to  the  air, 
Or  dedicate  his  beauty  to  the  sun  " — 

and  unable  to  endure  the  miscreant  cry  and  idiot  laugh,  with- 
drew to  sigh  his  last  breath  in  foreign  climes. — The  public  is  as 
envious  and  ungrateful  as  it  is  ignorant,  stupid,  and  pigeon-liver- 
ed— 

"  A  huge-sized  monster  of  ingratitude." 

It  reads,  it  admires,  it  extols  only  because  it  is  the  fashion,  not 
from  any  love  of  the  subject  or  the  man.  It  cries  you  up  or  runs 
you  down  out  of  mere  caprice  and  levity.  If  you  have  pleased 
it,  it  is  jealous  of  its  own  involuntary  acknowledgment  of  merit, 
and  seizes  the  first  opportunity,  the  first  shabby  pretext,  to  pick 
a  quarrel  with  you,  and  be  quits  once  more.  Every  petty  cavil- 
ler is  erected  into  a  judge,  every  tale-bearer  is  implicitly  believed. 
Every  little  low  paltry  creature  that  gaped  and  wondered  only 
because  others  did  so,  is  glad  to  find  you  (as  he  thinks)  on  a  level 
with  himself.  An  author  is  not  then,  after  all,  a  being  of  another 
order.  Public  admiration  is  forced,  and  goes  against  the  grain. 
Public  obloquy  is  cordial  and  sincere :  every  individual  feels  his 
own  importance  in  it.  They  give  you  up  bound  hand  and  foot 
into  the  power  of  your  accusers.  To  attempt  to  defend  yourself 
is  a  high  crime  and  misdemeanor,  a  contempt  of  court,  an  ex- 
treme piece  of  impertinence.  Or  if  you  prove  every  charge 
unfounded,  they  never  think  of  retracting  their  error,  or  making 
you  amends.  It  would  be  a  compromise  of  their  dignity  ;  they 
consider  themselves  as  the  party  injured,  and  resent  your  inno- 
cence as  an  imputation  on  their  judgment.  The  celebrated  Bubb 
Doddington,  when  out  of  favor  at  court,  said,  "  he  would  not  jus- 
tify before  his  sovereign  :  it  was  for  majesty  to  be  displeased,  and 
for  him  to  believe  himself  in  the  wrong  !"  The  public  are  not 
quite  so  modest.  People  already  begin  to  talk  of  the  Scotch 
Novels  as  overrated.  •  How  then  can  common  authors  be  sup- 
posed to  keep  their  heads  long  above  water  ?  As  a  general  rul*> 
21 


76  TABLE  TALK. 


all  those  who  live  by  the  public  starve,  and  are  made  a  bye-word 
and  a  standing  jest  into  the  bargain.  Posterity  is  no  better  (not 
a  bit  more  enlightened  or  more  liberal),  except  that  you  are  no 
longer  in  their  power,  and  that  the  voice  of  common  fame  saves 
them  the  trouble  of  deciding  on  your  claims.  The  public  now 
are  the  posterity  of  Milton  and  Shakspeare.  Our  posterity  will 
be  the  living  public  of  a  future  generation.  When  a  man  is 
dead,  they  put  money  in  his  coffin,  erect  monuments  to  his 
memory,  and  celebrate  the  anniversary  of  his  birth-day  in  set 
speeches.  Would  they  take  any  notice  of  him  if  he  were  living  ? 
No ! — I  was  complaining  of  this  to  a  Scotchman  who  had  been 
attending  a  dinner  and  a  subscription  to  raise  a  monument  to 
Burns.  He  replied,  he  would  sooner  subscribe  twenty  pounds  to 
his  monument  than  have  given  it  him  while  living  ;  so  that  if  the 
poet  were  to  come  to  life  again,  he  would  treat  him  just  as  he  was 
treated  in  fact.  This  was  an  honest  Scotchman.  What  he  said, 
the  res*  would  do. 

Enough :  my  soul,  turn  from  them,  and  let  me  try  to  regain 
the  obscurity  and  quiet  that  I  love,  "  far  from  the  madding  strife," 
in  some  sequestered  corner  of  my  own,  or  in  some  far-distant 
land !  In  the  latter  case,  I  might  carry  with  me  as  a  consolation 
the  passage  in  Bolingbroke's  Reflections  on  Exile,  in  which  he 
describes  in  glowing  colors  the  resources  which  a  man  may 
always  find  within  himself,  and  of  which  the  world  cannot  de- 
prive him. 

"  Believe  me,  the  providence  of  God  has  established  such  an 
order  in  the  world,  that  of  all  which  belongs  to  us,  the  least  valu- 
able parts  can  alone  fall  under  the  will  of  others.  Whatever  is 
best  is  safest ;  lies  out  of  the  reach  of  human  power  ;  can  neither 
be  given  nor  taken  away.  Such  is  this  great  and  beautiful 
work  of  nature,  the  world.  Such  is  the  mind  of  man,  which  con- 
templates and  admires  the  world  whereof  it  makes  the  noblest 
part.  These  are  inseparably  ours,  and  as  long  as  we  remain  in 
one  we  shall  enjoy  the  other.  Let  us  march  therefore  intrepidly 
wherever  we  are  led  by  the  course  of  human  accidents.  Wher- 
ever they  lead  us,  on  what  coast  soever  we  are  thrown  by  them, 
we  shall  not  find  ourselves  absolutely  strangers.     We  shall  feel 


ON  LIVING  TO  ONE'S  SELF.  77 

the  same  revolution  of  seasons,  and  the  same  sun  and  moon*  will 
guide  the  course  of  our  year.  The  same  azure  vault,  bespan- 
gled with  stars,  will  be  everywhere  spread  over  our  heads.  There 
is  no  part  of  the  world  from  whence  we  may  not  admire  those 
planets  which  roll,  like  ours,  in  different  orbits  round  the  same 
central  sun  ;  from  whence  we  may  not  discover  an  object  still 
more  stupendous,  that  army  of  fixed  stars  hung  up  in  the  immense 
space  of  the  universe,  innumerable  suns  whose  beams  enlighten 
and  cherish  the  unknown  worlds  which  roll  around  them ;  and 
whilst  I  am  ravished  by  such  contemplations  as  these,  whilst  my 
soul  is  thus  raised  up  to  heaven,  imports  me  little  what  ground  J 
tread  upon." 

*  "  Plut.  of  Banishment.  He  compares  those  who  cannot  live  out  of 
their  own  country,  to  the  simple  people  who  fancied  the  moon  of  Athens 
was  a  finer  moon  than  that  of  Corinth, 

—Labentem  calo  quae  ducitis  annum 

Vi*g.  Georg." 


78  TABLE  TALK. 


ESSAY   VV. 
On  Genius  and  Common  Sense. 

We  hear  it  maintained  by  people  of  more  gravity  than  under- 
standing,  that  genius  and  taste  are  strictly  reducible  to  rules,  and 
that  there  is  a  rule  for  everything.  So  far  is  it  from  being  true 
that  the  finest  breath  of  fancy  is  a  definable  thing,  that  the  plainest 
common  sense  is  only  what  Mr.  Locke  would  have  called  a 
mixed  mode,  subject  to  a  particular  sort  of  acquired  and  undefina- 
ble  tact.  It  is  asked,  "  If  you  do  not  know  the  rule  by  which  a 
thing  is  done,  how  can  you  be  sure  of  doing  it  a  second  time  ?  " 
And  the  answer  is,  "  If  you  do  not  know  the  muscles  by  the  help 
of  which  you  walk,  how  is  it  you  do  not  fall  down  at  every  step 
you  take  ?"  In  art,  in  taste,  in  life,  in  speech,  you  decide  from 
feeling,  and  not  from  reason ;  that  is,  from  the  impression  of  a 
number  of  things  on  the  mind,  which  impression  is  true  and  well- 
founded,  though  you  may  not  be  able  to  analyze  or  account  for  it 
in  the  several  particulars.  In  a  gesture  you  use,  in  a  look  you 
see,  in  a  tone  you  hear,  you  judge  of  the  expression,  propriety, 
and  meaning  from  habit,  not  from  reason  or  rules  ;  that  is  to  say, 
from  innumerable  instances  of  like  gestures,  looks,  and  tones,  in 
innumerable  other  circumstances,  variously  modified,  which  are 
too  many  and  too  refined  to  be  all  distinctly  recollected,  but  which 
do  not  therefore  operate  the  less  powerfully  upon  the  mind  and 
eye  of  taste.  Shall  we  say  that  these  impressions  (the  immediate 
stamp  of  nature)  do  not  operate  in  a  given  manner  till  they  are 
classified  and  reduced  to  rules,  or  is  not  the  rule  itself  grounded 
upon  the  truth  and  certainty  of  that  natural  operation  ?  How 
then  can  the  distinction  of  the  understanding  as  to  the  manner  in 
which  they  operate  be  necessary  to  their  producing  their  due  and 
uniform  effect  upon  the  mind  ?  If  certain  effects  did  not  regularly 
arise  out  of  certain  causes  in  mind  as  well  as  matter,  there  could 


ON  GENIUS  AND  COMMON  SENSE.  79 

be  no  rule  given  for  them :  nature  does  not  follow  the  rule,  but 
suggests  it.  Reason  is  the  interpreter  and  critic  of  nature  and 
genius,  not  their  lawgiver  and  judge.  He  must  be  a  poor  crea- 
ture indeed  whose  practical  convictions  do  not  in  almost  all  cases 
outrun  his  deliberate  understanding,  or  who  does  not  feel  and 
know  much  more  than  he  can  give  a  reason  for.  Hence  the  dis- 
tinction between  eloquence  and  wisdom,  between  ingenuity  and 
common  sense.  A  man  may  be  dexterous  and  able  in  explaining 
the  grounds  of  his  opinions,  and  yet  may  be  a  mere  sophist,  because 
he  only  sees  one  half  of  a  subject.  Another  may  feel  the  whole 
weight  of  a  question,  nothing  relating  to  it  may  be  lost  upon  him, 
and  yet  he  may  be  able  to  give  no  account  of  the  manner  in 
which  it  affects  him,  or  to  drag  his  reasons  from  their  silent 
lurking-places.  This  last  will  be  a  wise  man,  though  neither  a 
logician  nor  a  rhetorician.  Goldsmith  was  a  fool  to  Dr.  Johnson 
in  argument ;  that  is,  in  assigning  the  specific  grounds  of  his 
opinions  :  Dr.  Johnson  was  a  fool  to  Goldsmith  in  the  fine  tact, 
the  airy,  intuitive  faculty  with  which  he  skimmed  the  surfaces  of 
things,  and  unconsciously  formed  his  opinions.  Common  sen  <e 
is  the  just  result  of  the  sum-total  of  such  unconscious  impressions 
in  the  ordinary  occurrences  of  life,  as  they  are  treasured  up  in  the 
memory,  and  called  out  by  the  occasion.  Genius  and  taste  depend 
much  upon  the  same  principle  exercised  on  loftier  ground  and  in 
more  unusual  combinations. 

I  am  glad  to  shelter  myself  from  the  charge  of  affectation  or 
singularity  in  this  view  of  an  often  debated,  but  ill  understood 
point,  by  quoting  a  passage  from  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds's  Discourses, 
which  is  full,  and,  I  think,  conclusive  to  the  purpose.     He  says, 

"  I  observe,  as  a  fundamental  ground,  common  to  all  the  Arts 
with  which  we  have  any  concern  in  this  Discourse,  that  they 
address  themselves  only  to  two  faculties  of  the  mind,  its  imagina- 
tion and  its  sensibility. 

"  All  theories  which  attempt  to  direct  or  to  control  the  Art, 
upon  any  principles  falsely  called  rational,  which  we  form  to  ou%. 
selves  upon  a  supposition  of  what  ought  in  reason  to  be  the  eno 
or  means  of  Art,  independent  of  the  known  first  effect  produced 
by  objects  on  the  imagination,  must  be  false  and  delusive.  For 
though  it  may  appear  bold  to  say  it,  the  imagination  is  here  the 


80  TABLE  TALK. 


residence  of  truth.  If  the  imagination  be  affected,  the  conclusion 
is  fairly  drawn  ;  if  it  be  not  affected,  the  reasoning  is  erroneous, 
because  the  end  is  not  attained  ;  the  effect  itself  being  the  test, 
and  the  only  test,  of  the  truth  and  efficacy  of  the  means. 

"  There  is  in  the  commerce  of  life,  as  in  Art,  a  sagacity  which 
is  far  from  being  contradictory  to  right  reason,  and  is  superior  to 
any  occasional  exercise  of  that  faculty  ;  which  supersedes  it ; 
and  does  not  wait  for  the  slow  progress  of  deduction,  but  goes  at 
once,  by  what  appears  a  kind  of  intuition,  to  the  conclusion.  A 
man  endowed  with  this  faculty  feels  and  acknowledges  the  truth, 
though  it  is  not  always  in  his  power,  perhaps,  to  give  a  reason  for 
it ;  because  he  cannot  recollect  and  bring  before  him  all  the  ma- 
terials that  gave  birth  to  his  opinion  ;  for  very  many  and  very 
intricate  considerations  may  unite  to  form  the  principle,  even  of 
small  and  minute  parts,  involved  in,  or  dependent  on,  a  great 
system  of  things : — though  these  in  process  of  time  are  forgotten, 
Urn  right  impression  still  remains  fixed  in  his  mind. 

"  This  impression  is  the  result  of  the  accumulated  experience 
of  our  whole  life,  and  has  been  collected  we  do  not  always  know 
how,  or  when.  But  this  mass  of  collective  observation,  however 
acquired,  ought  to  prevail  over  that  reason,  which,  however  pow- 
erfully exerted  on  any  particular  occasion,  will  probably  compre- 
hend but  a  partial  view  of  the  subject ;  and  our  conduct  in  life, 
as  in  the  arts,  is  or  ought  to  be  generally  governed  by  this  habitual 
reason  :  it  is  our  happiness  that  we  are  enabled  to  draw  on  such 
funds.  If  we  were  obliged  to  enter  into  a  theoretical  deliberation 
on  every  occasion  before  we  act,  life  would  be  at  a  stand,  and  Art 
would  be  impracticable. 

"  It  appears  to  me,  therefore"  (continues  Sir  Joshua),  "  that 
our  first  thoughts,  that  is,  the  effect  which  anything  produces  on 
our  minds,  on  its  first  appearance,  is  never  to  be  forgotten  ;  and 
it  demands  for  that  reason,  because  it  is  the  first,  to  be  laid  up 
with  care.  If  this  be  not  done,  the  artist  may  happen  to  impose 
on  himself  by  partial  reasoning ;  by  a  cold  consideration  of  those 
animated  thoughts  which  proceed,  not  perhaps  from  caprice  or 
rashness  (as  he  may  afterwards  conceit),  but  from  the  fulness  of 
his  mind,  enriched  with  the  copious  stores  of  all  the  various  in- 
ventions which  he  had  ever  seen,  or  had  ever  passed  in  his  mind. 


ON  GENIUS  AND  COMMON  SENSE.  81 

These  ideas  are  infused  into  his  design,  without  any  conscious 
effort ;  but  if  he  be  not  on  his  guard,  he  may  reconsider  and 
correct  them,  till  the  whole  matter  is  reduced  to  a  common-place 
invention. 

"  This  is  sometimes  the  effect  of  what  I  mean  to  caution  you 
against :  that  is  to  say,  an  unfounded  distrust  of  the  imagination 
and  feeling,  in  favor  of  narrow,  partial,  confined,  argumentative 
theories,  and  of  principles  that  seem  to  apply  to  the  design  in 
hand  ;  without  considering  those  general  impressions  on  the  fancy 
in  which  real  principles  of  sound  reason,  and  of  much  more  weight 
and  importance,  are  involved,  and,  as  it  were,  lie  hid  under  the 
appearance  of  a  sort  of  vulgar  sentiment.  Reason,  without 
doubt,  must  ultimately  determine  everything ;  at  this  minute 
it  is  required  to  inform  us  when  that  very  reason  is  to  give  way 
to  feeling." — Discourse  XIII.,  vol.  ii.,  p.  113—17. 

Mr.  Burke,  by  whom  the  foregoing  train  of  thinking  was  pro- 
bably suggested,  has  insisted  on  the  same  thing,  and  made  rather 
a  perverse  use  of  it  in  several  parts  of  his  Reflections  on  the 
French  Revolution ;  and  Windham  in  one  of  his  Speeches  has 
clenched  it  into  an  aphorism — "  There  is  nothing  so  true  as 
habit."  Once  more  I  would  say,  common  sense  is  tacit  reason. 
Conscience  is  the  same  tacit  sense  of  right  and  wrong,  or  the 
impression  of  our  moral  experience  and  moral  apprehensions  on 
the  mind,  which,  because  it  works  unseen,  yet  certainly,  we 
suppose  to  be  an  instinct,  implanted  in  the  mind ;  as  we  sometimes 
attribute  the  violent  operations  of  our  passions,  of  which  we  can 
neither  trace  the  source  nor  assign  the  reason,  to  the  instigation 
if  the  Devil ! 

I  shall  here  try  to  go  more  at  large  into  this  subject,  and  to 
give  such  instances  and  illustrations  of  it  as  occur  to  me. 

One  of  the  persons  who  had  rendered  themselves  obnoxious  to 
Government,  and  been  included  in  a  charge  for  high  treason  in 
the  year  1794,  had  retired  soon  after  into  Wales  to  write  an  epic 
poem  and  enjoy  the  luxuries  of  a  rural  life.  In  his  peregrina- 
tions through  that  beautiful  scenery,  he  had  arrived  one  fine 
morning  at  the  inn  at  Llangollen,  in  the  romantic  valley  of  that 
name.  He  had  ordered  his  breakfast,  and  was  sitting  at  the  win- 
dow in  all  the  dalliance  of  expectation,  when  a  face  passed  of 

SECOND    SERIES PART  I.  21 


6*  TABLE  TALK. 


which  he  took  no  notice  at  the  instant — but  when  his  breakfast 
was  brought  in  presently  after,  he  found  his  appetite  for  it  gone, 
the  day  had  lost  its  freshness  in  his  eye,  he  was  uneasy  and  spirit- 
less ;  and  without  any  cause  that  he  could  discover,  a  total  change 
had  taken  place  in  his  feelings.  While  he  was  trying  to  account 
for  this  odd  circumstance,  the  same  face  passed  again — it  was  the 
face  of  Taylor  the  spy ;  and  he  was  no  longer  at  a  loss  to  ex- 
plain the  difficulty.  He  had  before  caught  only  a  transient 
glimpse,  a  passing  side-view  of  the  face  ;  but  though  this  was 
not  sufficient  to  awaken  a  distinct  idea  in  his  memory,  his 
feelings,  quicker  and  surer,  had  taken  the  alarm ;  a  string 
had  been  touched  that  gave  a  jar  to  his  whole  frame,  and 
would  not  let  him  rest,  though  he  could  not  at  all  tell 
what  was  the  matter  with  him.  To  the  flitting,  shadowy, 
half-distinguished  profile  that  had  glided  by  his  window  was 
linked  unconsciously  and  mysteriously,  but  inseparably,  the  im- 
pression of  the  trains  that  had  been  laid  for  him  by  this  person ; 
— in  this  brief  moment,  in  this  dim,  illegible  short-hand  of  the 
mind,  he  had  just  escaped  the  speeches  of  the  Attorney  and  So- 
licitor-General over  again  ;  the  gaunt  figure  of  Mr.  Pitt  glared 
by  him  ;  the  walls  of  a  prison  enclosed  him ;  and  he  felt  the 
hands  of  the  executioner  near  him,  without  knowing  it  till  the 
tremor  and  disorder  of  his  nerves  gave  information  to  his  reason- 
ing faculties  that  all  was  not  well  within.  That  is,  the  same 
state  of  mind  was  recalled  by  one  circumstance  in  the  series  of 
association  that  had  been  produced  by  the  whole  set  of  circum- 
stances at  the  time,  though  the  manner  in  which  this  was  done 
was  not  immediately  perceptible.  In  other  words,  the  feeling  of 
pleasure  or  pain,  of  good  or  evil,  is  revived,  and  acts  instantane- 
ously upon  the  mind,  before  we  have  time  to  recollect  the  precise 
objects  which  have  originally  given   birth  to  it.*     The  incident 

*  Sentiment  has  the  same  source  as  that  here  pointed  out.  Thus  the 
Ranz  des  Vaches,  which  has  such  an  effect  on  the  minds  of  the  Swiss  pea- 
santry, when  its  well  known  sound  is  heard,  does  not  merely  recall  to  them 
the  idea  of  their  country,  but  has  associated  with  it  a  thousand  nameless 
ideas,  numberless  touches  of  private  affection,  of  early  hope,  romantic  ad- 
venture, and  national  pride,  all  which  rush  in  (with  mingled  currents)  to 
swell  the  tide  of  fond  remembrance,  and  make  them  languish  or  die  for 
home.     What  a  fine  instrument  the  human  heart  is  !     Who  shall  touch  it? 


ON  GENIUS  AND  COMMON  SENSE.  8? 

here  mentioned  was  merely,  then,  one  case  of  what  the  learned 
understand  by  the  association  of  ideas  :  but  all  that  is  meant  by 
feeling  or  common  sense  is  nothing  but  the  different  cases  of  the 
association  of  ideas,  more  or  less  true  to  the  impression  of  the 
original  circumstances,  as  reason  begins  with  the  more  formal 
development  of  those  circumstances,  or  pretends  to  account  for 
the  different  cases  of  the  association  of  ideas.  But  it  does  not 
follow  that  the  dumb  and  silent  pleading  of  the  former  (though 
sometimes,  nay,  often  mistaken)  is  less  true  than  that  of  its  bab- 
bling interpreter,  or  that  we  are  never  to  trust  its  dictates  with- 
out consulting  the  express  authority  of  reason.  Both  are  imper- 
fect, both  are  useful  in  their  way,  and  therefore  both  are  best 
together,  to  correct  or  to  confirm  one  another.  It  does  not  appear 
that  in  the  singular  instance  above  mentioned,  the  sudden  im- 
pression on  the  mind  was  superstition  or  fancy,  though  it  might 
have  been  thought  so,  had  it  not  been  proved  by  the  event  to  have 
a  real  physical  and  moral  cause.  Had  not  the  same  face  re- 
turned again,  the  doubt  would  never  have  been  properly  cleared 
up,  but  would  have  remained  a  puzzle  ever  after,  or  perhaps 
have  been  soon  forgotten. — By  the  law  of  association,  as  laid  down 
by  physiologists,  any  impression  in  a  series  can  recall  any  other 
impression  in  that  series  without  going  through  the  whole  in 
order :  so  that  the  mind  drops  the  intermediate  links,  and  passes 
on  rapidly  and  by  stealth  to  the  more  striking  effects  of  pleasure 
or  pain  which  have  naturally  taken  the  strongest  hold  of  it.  By 
doing  this  habitually  and  skilfully  with  respect  to  the  various  im- 
pressions and  circumstances  with  which  our  experience  makes 
us  acquainted,  it  forms  a  series  of  unpremeditated  conclusions 
on  almost  all  subjects  that  can  be  brought  before  it,  as  just  as 
they  are  of  ready  application  to  human  life ;  and  common  sense 
is  the  name  of  this  body  of  unassuming  but  practical  wisdom. 
Common  sense,  however,  is  an  impartial,  instinctive  result  of 
truth  and  nature,  and  will  therefore  bear  the  test  and  abide  the 
scrutiny  of  the  most  severe  and  patient  reasoning.     It  is  indeed 

Who  shall  fathom  it?  Who  shall  "sound  it  from  its  lowest  rote  to  the 
top  of  its  compass  ?"  Who  shall  put  his  hand  among  the  strings,  and  ex- 
plain their  wayward  music  ?  The  heart  alone,  when  touched  by  aympathj, 
trembles  and  responds  to  their  hidden  meaning ! 

21* 


84  TABLE  TALK. 


incomplete  without  it.  By  ingrafting  reason  on  feeling,  we 
"  make  assurance  doubly  sure." 

"  'Tis  the  last  key-stone  that  makes  up  the  arch — 
Then  stands  it  a  triumphal  mark  !     Then  men 
Observe  the  strength,  the  height,  the  why  and  when 
It  was  erected:  and  still  walking  under, 
Meet  some  new  matter  to  kok  up,  and  wonder." 

But  reason,  not  employed  to  interpret  nature,  and  to  improve  and 
perfect  common  sense  and  experience,  is,  for  the  most  part,  a 
building  without  a  foundation. — The  criticism  exercised  by  rea- 
son then  on  common  sense  may  be  as  severe  as  it  pleases,  but  it 
must  be  as  patient  as  it  is  severe.  Hasty,  dogmatical,  self-satis- 
fied reason  is  worse  than  idle  fancy,  or  bigoted  prejudice.  It  is 
systematic,  ostentatious  in  error,  closes  up  the  avenues  of  know- 
ledge, and  "  shuts  the  gates  of  wisdom  on  mankind."  It  is  not 
enough  to  show  that  there  is  no  reason  for  a  thing,  that  we  do  not 
see  the  reason  of  it :  if  the  common  feeling,  if  the  involuntary 
prejudice  sets  in  strong  in  favor  of  it,  if,  in  spite  of  all  we  can 
do,  there  is  a  lurking  suspicion  on  the  side  of  our  first  impres- 
sions, we  must  try  again,  and  believe  that  truth  is  mightier  than 
we.  So,  in  offering  a  definition  of  any  subject,  if  we  feel  a  mis- 
giving that  there  is  any  fact  or  circumstance  omitted,  but  of  which 
we  have  only  a  vague  apprehension,  like  a  name  we  cannot  re- 
collect, we  must  ask  for  more  time,  and  not  cut  the  matter  short 
by  an  arrogant  assumption  of  the  point  in  dispute.  Common 
sense  thus  acts  as  a  check-weight  on  sophistry,  and  suspends  our 
rash  and  superficial  judgments.  On  the  other  hand,  if  not  only 
no  reason  can  be  given  for  a  thing,  but  every  reason  is  clear 
against  it,  and  we  can  account  from  ignorance,  from  authority, 
from  interest,  from  different  causes,  for  the  prevalence  of  an 
opinion  or  sentiment,  then  we  have  a  right  to  conclude  that  we 
have  mistaken  a  prejudice  for  an  instinct,  or  have  confounded  a 
false  and  partial  impression  with  the  fair  and  unavoidable  infer- 
ence from  general  observation.  Mr.  Burke  said  that  we  ought 
not  to  reject  every  prejudice,  but  should  separate  the  husk  of  pre- 
judice from  the  truth  it  encloses,  and  so  try  to  get  at  the  kernel 
within  ;  and  thus  far  he  was  right.     But  he  was  wrong  in  insist- 


ON  GENIUS  AND  COMMON  SENSE.  S5 

ing  that  we  are  to  cherish  our  prejudices,  "  because  they  are  pre- 
judices:" for  if  they  are  all  well  founded,  there  is  no  occasion 
to  inquire  into  their  origin  or  use  ;  and  he  who  sets  out  to  phi- 
losophize upon  them,  or  make  the  separation  Mr.  Burke  talks  of 
in  this  spirit  and  with  this  previous  determination,  will  be  very 
likely  to  mistake  a  maggot  or  a  rotten  canker  for  the  precious 
kernel  of  truth,  as  was  indeed  the  case  with  our  political  sophist. 
There  is  nothing  more  distinct  than  common  sense  and  vul- 
gar opinion.  Common  sense  is  only  a  judge  of  things  that  fall 
under  common  observation,  or  immediately  come  home  to  the 
business  and  bosoms  of  men.  This  is  of  the  very  essence  of  its 
principle,  the  basis  of  its  pretensions.  It  rests  upon  the  simple 
process  of  feeling,  it  anchors  in  experience.  It  is  not,  nor  it  can- 
not be,  the  test  of  abstract,  speculative  opinions.  But  half  the 
opinions  and  prejudices  of  mankind,  those  which  they  hold  in  the 
most  unqualified  approbation  and  which  have  been  instilled  into 
them  under  the  strongest  sanctions,  are  of  this  latter  kind,  that  is, 
opinions,  not  which  they  have  ever  thought,  known,  or  felt  one 
tittle  about,  but  which  they  have  taken  up  on  trust  from  others, 
which  have  been  palmed  on  their  understandings  by  fraud  or 
force,  and  which  they  continue  to  hold  at  the  peril  of  life,  limb, 
property,  and  character,  with  as  little  warrant  from  common  sense 
in  the  first  instance  as  appeal  to  reason  in  the  last.  The  ultima 
ratio  regum  proceeds  upon  a  very  different  plea.  Common  sense 
is  neither  priestcraft  nor  state-policy.  Yet  "  there's  the  rub  that 
makes  absurdity  of  so  long  life j"  and,  at  the  same  time,  gives 
the  sceptical  philosophers  the  advantage  over  us.  Till  nature 
has  fair  play  allowed  it,  and  it  is  not  adulterated  by  political  and 
polemical  quacks  (as  it  so  often  has  been),  it  is  impossible  to  ap- 
peal to  it  as  a  defence  against  the  errors  and  extravagances  of 
mere  reason.  If  we  talk  of  common  sense,  we  are  twitted  with 
vulgar  prejudice,  and  asked  how  we  distinguish  the  one  from  the 
other :  but  common  and  received  opinion  is  indeed  "  a  compost 
heap"  of  crude  notions,  got  together  by  the  pride  and  passions  of 
individuals,  and  reason  is  itself  the  thrall  or  manumitted  slave 
of  the  same  lordly  and  besotted  masters,  dragging  its  servile 
chain,  or  committing  all  sorts  of  Saturnalian  licenses,  the  moment 
it  feels  itself  freed  from  it. — If  ten  millions  of  Englishmen  are 


86  TABLE  TALK. 


furious  in  thinking  themselves  right  in  making  war  upon  thirty 
millions  of  Frenchmen,  and  if  the  last  are  equally  bent  upon 
thinking  the  others  always  in  the  wrong,  though  it  is  a  common 
and  national  prejudice,  both  opinions  cannot  be  the  dictate  of 
good  sense :  but  it  may  be  the  infatuated  policy  of  one  or  both 
governments  to  keep  their  subjects  always  at  variance.  If  a 
few  centuries  ago  all  Europe  believed  in  the  infallibility  of  the 
Pope,  this  was  not  an  opinion  derived  from  the  proper  exercise  or 
erroneous  direction  of  the  common  sense  of  the  people :  common 
sense  had  nothing  to  do  with  it — they  believed  whatever  their 
priests  told  them.  England  at  present  is  divided  into  Whigs  and 
Tories,  Churchmen  and  Dissenters :  both  parties  have  numbers 
on  their  side  ;  but  common  sense  and  party-spirit  are  two  different 
things.  Sects  and  heresies  are  upheld  partly  by  sympathy,  and 
partly  by  the  love  of  contradiction :  if  there  was  nobody  of  a 
different  way  of  thinking,  they  would  fall  to  pieces  of  themselves. 
If  a  whole  court  say  the  same  thing,  this  is  no  proof  that  they 
ihink  it,  but  that  the  individual  at  the  head  of  the  court  has  said 
it :  if  a  mob  agree  for  a  while  in  shouting  the  same  watch-word, 
this  is  not  to  me  an  example  of  the  sensus  communis  ;  they  only 
repeat  what  they  have  heard  repeated  by  others.  If  indeed  a 
large  proportion  of  the  people  are  in  want  of  food,  of  clothing, 
of  shelter,  if  they  are  sick,  miserable,  scorned,  oppressed,  and  if 
each  feeling  it  in  himself,  they  all  say  so  with  one  voice  and  one 
heart,  and  lift  up  their  hands  to  second  their  appeal,  this  I  should 
say  was  but  the  dictate  of  common  sense,  the  cry  of  nature. 
But  to  waive  this  part  of  the  argument,  which  it  is  needless  to 
push  farther,  I  believe  that  the  best  way  to  instruct  mankind  is 
not  by  pointing  out  to  them  their  mutual  errors,  but  by  teaching 
them  to  think  rightly  on  different  matters,  where  they  will  listen 
with  patience  in  order  to  be  amused,  and  where  they  do  not  con- 
sider a  definition  or  a  syllogism  as  the  greatest  injury  you  can 
olfer  them. 

There  is  no  rule  for  expression.  It  is  got  at  solely  by  feeling., 
that  is,  on  the  principle  of  the  association  of  ideas,  and  by  trans, 
ferring  what  has  been  found  to  hold  good  in  one  case  (with  the 
necessary  modifications)  to  others.  A  certain  look  has  been  re- 
marked strongly  indicative  of  a  certain  passion  o    trait  of  cha- 


ON  GENIUS  AND  COMMON  SENSE.  87 

racter,  and  we  attach  the  same  meaning  to  it  or  are  affected  in 
the  same  pleasurable  or  painful  manner  by  it,  where  it  exists  in 
a  less  degree,  though  we  can  define  neither  the  look  itself  nor  the 
modification  of  it.  Having  got  the  general  clue,  the  exact  result 
may  be  left  to  the  imagination  to  vary,  to  extenuate  or  aggravate 
it  according  to  circumstances.     In  the  admirable  profile  of  Oliver 

Cromwell  after  ,  the  drooping  eye-lids,  as  if  drawing  a 

veil  over  the  fixed,  penetrating  glance,  the  nostrils  somewhat  dis- 
tended, and  lips  compressed  so  as  hardly  to  let  the  breath  escape 
him,  denote  the  character  of  the  man  for  high-reaching  policy 
and  deep  designs  as  plainly  as  they  can  be  written.  How  is  it 
that  we  decipher  this  expression  in  the  face  ?  First,  by  feeling 
it :  and  how  is  it  that  we  feel  it  ?  Not  by  pre-established  rules, 
but  by  the  instinct  of  analogy,  by  the  principle  of  association, 
which  is  subtle  and  sure  in  proportion  as  it  is  variable  and  inde- 
finite. A  circumstance,  apparently  of  no  value,  shall  alter  the 
whole  interpretation  to  be  put  upon  an  expression  or  action  ;  and 
it  shall  alter  it  thus  powerfully  because  in  proportion  to  its  very 
insignificance  it  shows  a  strong  general  principle  at  work  that 
extends  in  its  ramifications  to  the  smallest  things.  This  in  fact 
will  make  all  the  difference  between  minuteness  and  subtlety  or 
refinement ;  for  a  small  or  trivial  effect  may  in  given  circum- 
stances imply  the  operation  of  a  great  power.  Stillness  may  be 
the  result  of  a  blow  too  powerful  to  be  resisted  ;  silence  may  be 
imposed  by  feelings  too  agonizing  for  utterance.  The  minute, 
the  trifling  and  insipid,  is  that  which  is  little  in  itself,  in  its  causes 
and  its  consequences :  the  subtle  and  refined  is  that  which  is 
slight  and  evanescent  at  first  sight,  but  which  mounts  up  to  a 
mighty  sum  in  the  end,  which  is  an  essential  part  of  an  important 
whole,  which  has  consequences  greater  than  itself,  and  where 
more  is  meant  than  meets  the  eye  or  ear.  We  complain  some- 
times of  littleness  in  a  Dutch  picture,  where  there  are  a  vast 
number  of  distinct  parts  and  objects,  each  small  in  itself,  and 
leading  to  nothing  else.  A  sky  of  Claude's  cannot  fall  under 
this  censure,  where  one  imperceptible  gradation  is  as  it  were  the 
scale  to  another,  where  the  broad  arch  of  heaven  is  piled  up  of 
endlessly  intermediate  gold  and  azure  tints,  and  where  an  infinite 
number  of  minute,  scarce  noticed  particulars  blend  and  melt  into 


8S  TABLE  TALK 


universal  harmony.  The  subtlety  in  Shakspeare,  of  which  there 
is  an  immense  deal  everywhere  scattered  up  and  down,  is  always 
the  instrument  of  passion,  the  vehicle  of  character.  The  action 
of  a  man  pulling  his  hat  over  his  forehead  is  indifferent  -enough 
in  itself,  and,  generally  speaking,  may  mean  anything  or  nothing : 
but  in  the  circumstances  in  which  Macduff  is  placed,  it  is  neither 
insignificant  nor  equivocal. 

"  What !  man,  ne'er  pull  your  hat  upon  your  brows,"  &c. 

It  admits  but  of  one  interpretation  or  inference,  that  which  fol- 
lows it : — 

"  Give  sorrow  words  :  the  grief  that  does  not  speak, 
Whispers  the  o'er-fraught  heart,  and  bids  it  break." 

The  passage  in  the  same  play,  in  which  Duncan  and  his  attend- 
ants are  introduced  commenting  on  the  beauty  and  situation  of 
Macbeth's  castle,  though  familiar  in  itself,  has  been  often  praised 
for  the  striking  contrast  it  presents  to  the  scenes  which  follow. 
The  same  look  in  different  circumstances  may  convey  a  totally 
different  expression.  Thus  the  eye  turned  round  to  look  at  you 
without  turning  the  head  indicates  generally  slyness  or  suspicion ; 
but  if  this  is  combined  with  large  expanded  eye-lids  or  fixed  eye- 
brows, as  we  see  it  in  Titian's  pictures,  it  will  denote  calm  con- 
templation or  piercing  sagacity,  without  anything  of  meanness  or 
fear  of  being  observed.  In  other  cases,  it  may  imply  merely 
indolent  enticing  voluptuousness,  as  in  Lely's  portraits  of  women. 
The  languor  and  weakness  of  the  eye-lids  gives  the  amorous  turn 
to  the  expression.  How  should  there  be  a  rule  for  all  this  be- 
forehand, seeing  it  depends  on  circumstances  ever  varying,  and 
scarce  discernible  but  by  their  effect  on  the  mind  ?  Rules  are 
applicable  to  abstractions,  but  expression  is  concrete  and  indivi- 
dual. We  know  the  meaning  of  certain  looks,  and  we  feel  how 
they  modify  one  another  in  conjunction.  But  we  cannot  have  a 
separate  rule  to  judge  of  all  their  combinations  in  different  de- 
grees and  circumstances,  without  foreseeing  all  those  combina- 
tions, which  is  impossible  :  or  if  we  did  foresee  them,  we  should 


ON  GENIUS  AND  COMMON  SENSE.  g> 

only  be  where  we  are  ;  that  is,  we  could  only  make  the  rule  as 
we  now  judge  without  it,  from  imagination  and  the  feeling  of  the 
moment.  The  absurdity  of  reducing  expression  to  a  preconcert- 
ed system  was  perhaps  never  more  evidently  shown  than  in  a 
picture  of  the  Judgment  of  Solomon  by  so  great  a  man  as  N. 
Poussin,  which  I  once  heard  admired  for  the  skill  and  discrimina- 
tion of  the  artist  in  making  all  the  women,  who  are  ranged  on 
one  side,  in  the  greatest  alarm  at  the  sentence  of  the  judge, 
while  all  the  men  on  the  opposite  side  see  through  the  design  of 
it.  Nature  does  not  go  to  work  or  cast  things  in  a  regular  mould 
in  this  sort  of  way.  I  once  heard  a  person  remark  of  another — 
"  He  has  an  eye  like  a  vicious  horse."  This  was  a  fair  analogy. 
We  all,  I  believe,  have  noticed  the  look  of  a  horse's  eye,  just 
before  he  is  going  to  bite  or  kick.  But  will  any  one,  therefore, 
describe  to  me  exactly  what  that  look  is  ?  It  was  the  same  acute 
observer  that  said  of  a  self-sufficient  prating  music-master — "  He 
talks  on  all  subjects  at  sight" — which  expressed  the  man  at  once 
by  an  allusion  to  his  profession.  The  coincidence  was  indeed  per- 
feet.  Nothing  else  could  compare  to  the  easy  assurance  with  which 
this  gentleman  would  volunteer  an  explanation  of  things  of  which 
he  was  most  ignorant,  but  the  nonchalance  with  which  a  musician 
sits  down  to  a  harpsichord  to  play  a  piece  he  has  never  seen  before. 
My  physiognomical  friend  would  not  have  hit  on  this  mode  of  illus- 
tration without  knowing  the  profession  of  the  subject  of  his  criti- 
cism ;  but  having  this  hint  given  him,  it  instantly  suggested  itself 
to  his  "  sure  trailing."  The  manner  of  the  speaker  was  evident ; 
and  the  association  of  the  music-master  sitting  down  to  play  at 
sight,  lurking  in  his  mind,  was  immediately  called  out  by  the 
strength  of  his  impression  of  the  character.  The  feeling  of  cha- 
racter, and  the  felicity  of  invention  in  explaining  it,  were  nearly 
allied  to  each  other.  The  first  was  so  wrought  up  and  running 
over,  that  the  transition  to  the  last  was  easy  and  unavoidable. 
When  Mr.  Kean  was  so  much  praised  for  the  action  of  Richard 
in  his  last  struggle  with  his  triumphant  antagonist,  where  he 
stands,  after  his  sword  is  wrested  from  him,  with  his  hands 
stretched  out,  "as  if  his  will  could  not  be  disarmed,  and  the  very 
phantoms  of  his  despair  had  a  withering  power,"  he  said  that  he 
borrowed  it  from  seeing  the  last  efforts  of  Painter  in  his  fight  with 


90  TABLE  TALK. 


Oliver.  This  assuredly  did  not  lessen  the  merit  of  it.  Thus  it 
ever  is  with  the  man  of  real  genius.  He  has  the  feeling  of  truth 
already  shrined  in  his  own  breast,  and  his  eye  is  still  bent  on  na- 
ture to  see  how  she  expresses  herself.  When  we  thoroughly  un- 
derstand the  subject,  it  is  easy  to  translate  from  one  language  into 
another.  Raphael,  in  muffling  up  the  figure  of  Elymas  the  Sor- 
cerer in  his  garments,  appears  to  have  extended  the  idea  of  blind- 
ness even  to  his  clothes.  Was  this  design  ?  Probably  not ;  but 
merely  the  feeling  of  analogy  thoughtlessly  suggesting  this  de- 
vice, which  being  so  suggested  was  retained  and  carried  on,  be- 
cause it  flattered  or  fell  in  with  the  original  feeling.  The  tide  of 
passion,  when  strong,  overflows  and  gradually  insinuates  itself 
into  all  nooks  and  corners  of  the  mind.  Invention  (of  the  best 
kind)  I  therefore  do  not  think  so  distinct  a  thing  from  feeling,  as 
some  are  apt  to  imagine.  The  springs  of  pure  feeling  will  rise 
and  fill  the  moulds  of  fancy  that  are  fit  to  receive  it.  There  are 
some  striking  coincidences  of  color  in  well-composed  pictures,  as 
in  a  straggling  weed  in  the  foreground  streaked  with  blue  or  red 
to  answer  to  a  blue  or  red  drapery,  to  the  tone  of  the  flesh  or  an 
opening  in  the  sky  : — not  that  this  was  intended,  or  done  by  rule 
(for  then  it  would  presently  become  affected  and  ridiculous),  but 
the  eye  being  imbued  with  a  certain  color,  repeats  and  varies  it 
from  a  natural  sense  of  harmony,  a  secret  craving  and  appetite 
for  beauty  which  in  the  same  manner  soothes  and  gratifies  the 
eye  of  taste  though  the  cause  is  not  understood.  Tact,  finesse, 
is  nothing  but  the  being  completely  aware  of  the  feeling  be- 
longing to  certain  situations,  passions,  &c,  and  the  being  con- 
sequently sensible  to  their  slightest  indications  or  movements  in 
others.  One  of  the  most  remarkable  instances  of  this  sort  of 
(acuity  is  the  following  story,  told  of  Lord  Shaftesbury,  the 
grandfather  of  the  author  of  the  Characteristics.  He  had  been 
to  dine  with  Lady  Clarendon  and  her  daughter,  who  was  at  that 
time  privately  married  to  the  Duke  of  York  (afterwards  James 
II.)  and  as  he  returned  home  with  another  nobleman  who  had 
accompanied  him,  he  suddenly  turned  to  him,  and  said,  "De- 
pend upon  it,  the  Duke  has  married  Hyde's  daughter.'*  His 
companion  could  not  comprehend  what  he  meant  ;  but  on  ex- 
plaining himself,  he  said,  "  Her  mother  behaved  to  her  with  an 


ON  GENIUS  AND  COMMON  SENSE.  »1 

attention  and  a  marked  respect  that  it  is  impossible  to  ac- 
count for  in  any  other  way ;  and  I  am  sure  of  it."  His  con- 
jecture  shortly  afterwards  proved  to  be  the  truth.  This  was 
carrying  the  prophetic  spirit  of  common  sense  as  Ail.  as  it 
could  go. 


TABLE  TAL£. 


ESSAY  VIII. 
The  same  subject  continued. 

Genius  or  originality  is,  for  the  most  part,  some  strong  qualify  in 
the  mind,  answering  to  and  bringing  out  some  new  and  striking 
quality  in  nature. 

Imagination  is,  more  properly,  the  power  of  carrying  on  a  given 
feeling  into  other  situations,  which  must  be  done  best  according 
to  the  hold  which  the  feeling  itself  has  taken  of  the  mind.*  In 
new  and  unknown  combinations,  the  impression  must  act  by  sym- 
pathy, and  not  by  rule ;  but  there  can  be  no  sympathy,  where 
there  is  no  passion,  no  original  interest.  The  personal  interest 
may  in  some  cases  oppress  and  circumscribe  the  imaginative 
faculty,  as  in  the  instance  of  Rousseau  :  but  in  general  the 
strength  and  consistency  of  the  imagination  will  be  in  proportion 
to  the  strength  and  depth  of  feeling ;  and  it  is  rarely  that  a  man 
even  of  lofty  genius  will  be  able  to  do  more  than  carry  on  his  own 
feelings  and  character^,  or  some  prominent  and  ruling  passion,  into 
fictitious  and  uncommon  situations.  Milton  has  by  allusion  em- 
bodied a  great  part  of  his  political  and  personal  history  in  the 
nhief  characters  and  incidents  of  Paradise  Lost.  He  has,  no 
doubt,  wonderfully  adapted  and  heightened  them,  but  the  elements 
are  the  same  ;  you  trace  the  bias  and  opinions  of  the  man  in  ths 
creations  of  the  poet.  Shakspeare  (almost  alone)  seems  to  have 
been  a  man  of  genius,  raised  above  the  definition  of  genius. 
"  Born  universal  heir  to  all  humanity,"  he  was  "  as  one,  in  suf- 
fering all  who  suffered  nothing ;"  with  a  perfect  sympathy  with 
all  things,  yet  alike  indifferent  to  all :  who  did  not  tamper  with 
nature  or  warp  her  to  his  own  purposes  ;  who  "  knew  all  quali- 

*  I  do  not  here  speak  of  the  figurative  or  fanciful  exercise  of  the  imagina- 
tion, which  consists  in  finding  out  some  striking  ot  ject  or  image  to  illus- 
trate another. 


ON  GENIUS  AND  COMMON  SENSE.  93 

ties  with  a  learned  spirit,"  instead  of  judging  of  them  by  his  own 
predilections  ;  and  was  rather  "  a  pipe  for  the  Muse's  finger  to 
play  what  stop  she  pleased,"  than  anxious  to  set  up  any  character 
or  pretensions  of  his  own.  His  genius  consisted  in  the  faculty  of 
transforming  himself  at  will  into  whatever  he  chose  :  his  original- 
ity was  the  power  of  seeing  every  object  from  the  exact  point  of 
view  in  which  others  would  see  it.  He  was  the  Proteus  of  human 
intellect.  Genius  in  ordinary  is  a  more  obstinate  and  less  versa- 
tile thing.  It  is  sufficiently  exclusive  and  self-willed,  quaint  and 
peculiar.  It  does  some  one  thing  by  virtue  of  doing  nothing  else : 
it  excels  in  some  one  pursuit  by  being  blind  to  all  excellence  but 
its  own.  It  is  just  the  reverse  of  the  cameleon  ;  for  it  does  not 
borrow,  but  lends  its  colors  to  all  about  it :  or  like  the  glow-worm, 
discloses  a  little  circle  of  gorgeous  light  in  the  twilight  of  obscur- 
ity, in  the  night  of  intellect,  that  surrounds  it.  So  did  Rem- 
brandt. If  ever  there  was  a  man  of  genius,  he  was  one,  in  the 
proper  sense  of  the  term.  He  lived  in  and  revealed  to  others  a 
world  of  his  own,  and  might  be  said  to  have  invented  a  new  view 
of  nature.  He  did  not  discover  things  out  of  nature,  in  fiction  or 
fairy  land,  or  make  a  voyage  to  the  moon  "  to  descry  new  lands, 
rivers,  or  mountains  in  her  spotty  globe,"  but  saw  things  in  nature 
that  every  one  had  missed  before  him,  and  gave  others  eyes  to 
see  them  with.  This  is  the  test  and  triumph  of  originality,  not  to 
show  us  what  has  never  been,  and  what  we  may  therefore  very 
easily  never  have  dreamt  of,  but  to  point  out  to  us  what  is  before 
our  eyes  and  under  our  feet,  though  we  have  had  no  suspicion  of 
its  existence,  for  want  of  sufficient  strength  of  intuition,  of  deter- 
mined grasp  of  mind  to  seize  and  retain  it.  Rembrandt's  con- 
quests were  not  over  the  ideal,  but  the  real.  He  did  not  contrive 
a  new  story  or  character,  but  we  nearly  owe  to  him  a  fifth  part 
of  painting,  the  knowledge  of  chiaroscuro — a  distinct  power  and 
element  in  art  and  nature.  He  had  a  steadiness,  a  firm  keeping 
of  mind  and  eye,  that  first  stood  the  shock  of  "  fierce  extremes" 
in  light  and  shade,  or  reconciled  the  greatest  obscurity  and  the 
greatest  brilliancy  into  perfect  harmony  ;  and  he  therefore  was 
the  first  to  hazard  this  appearance  upcn  canvas,  and  give  full 
effect  to  what  he  saw  and  delighted  in.  He  was  led  to  adopt  this 
style  of  broad  and  startling  contrast  from  its  congeniality  to  his 


94  TABLE  TALK. 


own  feelings  :  his  mind  grappled  with  that  which  afforded  tha 
best  exercise  to  its  master-powers :  he  was  bold  in  act,  because 
he  was  urged  on  by  a  strong  native  impulse.  Originality  is  then 
nothing  but  nature  and  feeling  working  in  the  mind.  A  man 
does  not  affect  to  be  original  :  he  is  so,  because  he  cannot  help  it, 
and  often  without  knowing  it.  This  extraordinary  artist  indeed 
might  be  said  to  have  had  a  particular  organ  for  color.  His  eye 
seemed  to  come  in  contact  with  it  as  a  feeling,  to  lay  hold  of  it.  as 
a  substance,  rather  than  to  contemplate  it  as  a  visual  object. 
The  texture  of  his  landscapes  is  "  of  the  earth,  earthy" — his 
clouds  are  humid,*  heavy,  slow  ;  his  shadows  are  "  darkness  that 
may  be  felt,"  a  "  palpable  obscure  ;"  his  lights  are  lumps  of 
liquid  splendor  ;  there  is  something  more  in  this  than  can  be 
accounted  for  from  design  or  accident :  Rembrandt  was  not  a 
man  made  up  of  two  or  three  rules  and  directions  for  acquiring 
genius. 

I  am  afraid  I  shall  hardly  write  so  satisfactory  a  character  of 
Mr.  Wordsworth,  though  he,  too,  like  Rembrandt,  has  a  faculty 
of  making  something  out  of  nothing,  that  is,  out  of  himself,  by  the 
medium  through  which  he  sees  and  with  which  he  clothes  the 
barrenest  subject.  Mr.  Wordsworth  is  the  last  man  to  "  look 
abroad  into  universality,"  if  that  alone  constituted  genius  :  he 
looks  at  home  into  himself,  and  is  "  content  with  riches  fineless." 
He  would  in  the  other  case  be  "  poor  as  winter,"  if  he  had 
nothing  but  general  capacity  to  trust  to.  He  is  the  greatest,  that 
is,  the  most  original  poet  of  the  present  day,  only  because  he  is 
the  greatest  egotist.  He  is  "  self-involved,  not  dark."  He  sits 
in  the  centre  of  his  own  being,  and  there  "  enjoys  bright  day." 
He  does  not  waste  a  thought  on  others.  Whatever  does  not 
relate  exclusively  and  wholly  to  himself,  is  foreign  to  his  views. 
He  contemplates  a  whole-length  figure  of  himself,  he  looks  along 
the  unbroken  line  of  his  personal  identity.  He  thrusts  aside  all 
other  objects,  all  other  interests,  with  scorn  and  impatience,  that 
he  may  repose  on  his  own  being,  that  he  may  dig  out  the  trea- 
sures of  thought  contained  in  it,  that  he  may  unfold  the  precious 
stores  of  a  mind  for  ever  brooding  over  itself.  His  genius  is  the 
effect  of  his  individual  character.  He  stamps  that  character,  that 
deep  individual  interest,  on  whatever  he  meets.     The  object  js 


ON  GENIUS  AND  COMMON  SENSE.  95 

nothing  but  as  it  furnishes  food  for  internal  meditation,  for  old 
associations.  If  there  had  been  no  other  being  in  the  universe,  Mr. 
Wordsworth's  poetry  would  have  been  just  what  it  is.  If  there 
had  been  neither  love  nor  friendship,  neither  ambition  nor  plea- 
sure nor  business  in  the  world,  the  author  of  the  Lyrical  Ballads 
need  not  have  been  greatly  changed  from  what  he  is — might  still 
have  "  kept  the  noiseless  tenor  of  his  way,"  retired  in  the  sanc- 
tuary of  his  own  heart,  hallowing  the  Sabbath  of  his  own  thoughts. 
With  the  passions,  the  pursuits,  and  imaginations  of  other  men, 
he  does  not  profess  to  sympathize,  but  "  finds  tongues  in  the  trees, 
books  in  the  running  brooks,  sermons  in  stones,  and  good  in  every 
thing."  With  a  mind  averse  from  outward  objects,  but  ever 
intent  upon  its  own  workings,  he  hangs  a  weight  of  thought  and 
feeling  upon  every  trifling  circumstance  connected  with  his  past 
history.  The  note  of  the  ouckoo  sounds  in  his  ear  like  the  voice 
of  other  years  ;  the  daisy  spreads  its  leaves  in  the  rays  of  boyish 
delight,  that  stream  from  his  thoughtful  eyes ;  the  rainbow  lifts 
Us  proud  arch  in  heaven  but  to  mark  his  progress  from  infancy 
to  manhood ;  an  old  thorn  is  buried,  bowed  down  under  the  mass 
of  associations  he  has  wound  about  it ;  and  to  him,  as  he  himself 
beautifully  says, 

"  The  meanest  flow'r  that  blows  can  give 

Thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for  tears." 

It  is  this  power  of  habitual  sentiment,  or  of  transferring  the  interest 
of  our  conscious  existence  to  whatever  gently  solicits  attention, 
and  is  a  link  in  the  chain  of  association,  without  rousing  our  pas- 
sions or  hurting  our  pride,  that  is  the  striking  feature  in  Mr. 
Wordsworth's  mind  and  poetry.  Others  have  felt  and  shown  this 
power  before,  as  Withers,  Burns,  &c,  but  none  have  felt  it  so 
intensely  and  absolutely  as  to  lend  to  it  the  voice  of  inspiration,  as 
to  make  it  the  foundation  of  a  new  style  and  school  in  poetry. 
His  strength,  as  it  so  often  happens,  arises  from  the  excess  of  his 
weakness.  But  he  has  opened  a  new  avenue  to  the  human  heart, 
has  explored  another  secret  haunt  and  nook  of  nature,  "  sacred 
to  verse,  and  sure  of  everlasting  fame."  Compared  with  his 
lines,  Lord  Byron's  stanzas  are  but  exaggerated  common-place; 


96  •  TABLE  TALK. 


and  Walter  Scott's  poetry  (not  his  prose)  old  wives'  fables.* 
There  is  no  one  in  whom  I  have  been  more  disappointed  than  in 
the  writer  here  spoken  of,  nor  with  whom  I  am  more  disposed  on 
certain  points  to  quarrel  :  but  the  love  of  truth  and  justice  which 
obliges  me  to  do  this,  will  not  suffer  me  to  blench  his  merits.  Do 
what  he  can,  he  cannot  help  being  an  original-minded  man.  His 
poetry  is  not  servile.  While  the  cuckoo  returns  in  the  spring, 
while  the  daisy  looks  bright  in  the  sun,  while  the  rainbow  lifts  its 
head  above  the  storm — 

"  Yet  I'll  remember  thee,  Glencairn, 
And  all  that  thou  hast  done  for  me  !" 

Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  in  endeavoring  to  show  that  there  is  no  such 
thing  as  proper  originality,  a  spirit  emanating  from  the  mind  of 
the  artist  and  shining  through  his  works,  has  traced  Raphael 
through  a  number  of  figures  which  he  has  borrowed  from  Masac- 
cio  and  others.  This  is  a  bad  calculation.  If  Raphael  had  only 
borrowed  those  figures  from  others,  would  he,  even  in  Sir  Joshua's 
sense,  have  been  entitled  to  the  praise  of  originality  ?  Plagiarism, 
I  presume,  in  so  far  as  it  is  plagiarism,  is  not  originality.  Salva- 
tor  is  considered  by  many  as  a  great  genius.  He  was  what  they 
call  an  irregular  genius.  My  notion  of  genius  is  not  exactly  the 
same  as  theirs.  It  has  also  been  made  a  question  whether  there 
is  not  more  genius  in  Rembrandt's  Three  Trees  than  in  all  Claude 
Lorraine's  landscapes  ?  I  do  not  know  how  that  may  be  :  but 
it  was  enough  for  Claude  to  have  been  a  perfect  landscape- 
painter. 

Capacity  is  not  the  same  thing  as  genius.  Capacity  may  be 
described  to  relate  to  the  quantity  of  knowledge,  however  ac- 
quired ;  genius  to  its  quality  and  the  mode  of  acquiring  it.  Ca- 
pacity is  a  power  over  given  ideas  or  combinations  of  ideas  ; 
genius  is  the  power  over  those  which  are  not  given,  and  for  which 
no  obvious  or  precise  rule  can  be  laid  down.  Or  capacity  is 
power  of  any  sort :  genius  is  power  of  a  different  sort  from  what 
has  yet  been  shown.     A  retentive  memory,  a  clear  undeTstand- 

•  Mr.  Wordsworth  himself  should  not  say  this,  and  yet  I  am  not  fcure  be 
would  nut. 


ON  GKNIUS  AND  COMMON  SENSE.  §7 

ing  is  capacity,  but  it  is  not  genius.  The  admirable  Crichton 
was  a  person  of  prodigious  capacity  ;  but  there  is  no  proof  (that  I 
know  of)  that  he  had  an  atom  of  genius.  His  verses  that  remain 
are  dull  and  sterile.  He  could  learn  all  that  was  known  of  any 
subject :  he  could  do  anything  if  others  could  show  him  the  way 
to  do  it.  This  was  very  wonderful :  but  that  is  all  you  can  say  of 
it.  It  requires  a  good  capacity  to  play  well  at  chess  :  but,  after  all, 
it  is  a  game  of  skill,  and  not  of  genius.  Know  what  you  will  of 
it,  the  understanding  still  moves  in  certain  tracks  in  which  others 
have  trod  before  it,  quicker  or  slower,  with  more  or  less  compre- 
hension and  presence  of  mind.  The  greatest  skill  strikes  out 
nothing  for  itself,  from  its  own  peculiar  resources  ;  the  nature  of 
the  game  is  a  thing  determinate  and  fixed  :  there  is  no  royal  or 
poetical  road  to  check-mate  your  adversary.  There  is  no  place 
for  genius  but  in  the  indefinite  and  unknown.  The  discovery  of 
the  binomial  theorem  was  an  effort  of  genius  ;  but  there  was  none 
shown  in  Jedediah  Buxton's  being  able  to  multiply  9  figures  by 
9  in  his  head.  If  he  could  have  multiplied  90  figures  by  90  in- 
stead of  nine,  it  would  have  been  equally  useless  toil  and  trouble.* 
He  is  a  man  of  capacity  who  possesses  considerable  intellectual 
riches  :  he  is  a  man  of  genius  who  finds  out  a  vein  of  new  ore. 
Originality  is  the  seeing  nature  differently  from  others,  and  yet 
as  it  is  in  itself.  It  is  not  singularity  or  affectation,  but  the  dis- 
covery of  new  and  valuable  truth.  All  the  world  do  not  see  the 
whole  meaning  of  any  object  they  have  been  looking  at.  Habit 
blinds  them  to  some  things  ;  short-sightedness  to  others.     Every 

*  The  only  good  thing  I  ever  heard  come  of  this  man's  singular  faculty  of 
memory  was  the  following.  A  gentleman  was  mentioning  his  having  been 
sent  up  to  London  from  the  place  where  he  lived  to  see  Garrick  act.  When 
he  went  back  into  the  country,  he  was  asked  what  he  thought  of  the  player 
and  the  play.  "  Oh !"  he  said,  "  he  did  not  know  :  he  had  only  seen  a 
little  man  strut  about  the  stage,  and  repeat  7956  words."  We  all  laughed 
at  this,  but  a  person  in  one  corner  of  the  room,  holding  one  hand  to  his 
forehead,  and  seeming  mightily  delighted,  called  out,  "  Ay,  indeed  !  And 
pray,  was  he  found  to  be  correct  ?"  This  was  the  supererogation  of  literal 
matter-of-fact  curiosity.  Jedediah  Buxton's  counting  the  number  of  word> 
was  idle  enough  ;  but  here  was  a  fellow  who  wanted  some  one  to  count 
them  over  again  to  see  if  he  was  correct. 

"  The  force  of  dulness  could  nc  farther  150  f 
SECOND    SERIES PART  I.  8 


TABLE  TALK. 


mind  is  not  a  gauge  and  measure  of  truth.  Nature  has  her  sur 
face  and  her  dark  recesses.  She  is  deep,  obscure,  and  infinite. 
It  is  only  minds  on  whom  she  makes  her  fullest  impressions  that 
can  penetrate  her  shrine  or  unveil  her  Holy  of  Holies.  It  is  only 
those  whom  she  has  filled  with  her  spirit  that  have  the  boldness 
or  the  power  to  reveal  her  mysteries  to  others.  But  nature  has  a 
thousand  aspects,  and  one  man  can  only  draw  out  one  of  them. 
Whoever  does  this,  is  a  man  of  genius.  One  displays  her  force, 
another  her  refinement,  one  her  power  of  harmony,  another  her 
suddenness  of  contrast,  one  her  beauty  of  form,  another  her  splen- 
dor of  color.  Each  does  that  for  which  he  is  best  fitted  by  his 
particular  genius,  that  is  to  say,  by  some  quality  of  mind  into 
which  the  quality  of  the  object  sinks  deepest,  where  it  finds  the 
most  cordial  welcome,  is  perceived  to  its  utmost  extent,  and  where 
again  it  forces  its  way  out  from  the  fulness  with  which  it  has 
taken  possession  of  the  mind  of  the  student.  The  imagination 
gives  out  what  it  has  first  absorbed  by  congeniality  of  tempera- 
ment, what  it  has  attracted  and  moulded  into  itself  by  elective 
affinity,  as  the  loadstone  draws  and  impregnates  iron.  A  little 
originality  is  more  esteemed  and  sought  for  than  the  greatest 
acquired  talent,  because  it  throws  a  new  light  upon  things,  and  is 
peculiar  to  the  individual.  The  other  is  common ;  and  may  be 
had  for  the  asking,  to  any  amount. 

The  value  of  any  work  is  to  be  judged  of  by  the  quantity  of 
originality  contained  in  it.  A  very  little  of  this  will  go  a  great 
way.  If  Goldsmith  had  never  written  anything  but  the  two  or 
three  first  chapters  of  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield,  or  the  character  of 
a  Village-Schoolmaster,  they  would  have  stamped  him  a  man  of 
genius.  The  Editors  of  Encyclopedias  are  not  usually  reckoned 
the  first  literary  characters  of  the  age.  The  works,  of  which 
they  have  the  management,  contain  a  great  deal  of  knowledge, 
like  chests  or  warehouses,  but  the  goods  are  not  their  own.  We 
should  as  soon  think  of  admiring  the  shelves  of  a  library  ;  but  the 
shelves  of  a  library  are  useful  and  respectable.  1  was  once 
applied  to,  in  a  delicate  emergency,  to  write  an  article  on  a  diffi- 
cult subject  for  an  Encyclopedia,  and  was  advised  to  take  time 
and  give  it  a  systematic  and  scientific  form,  to  avail  myself  of  all 
the  knowledge  that  was  to  be  obtained  on  the  subject,  and  arrange 


ON  GENIUS  AND  COMMON  SENSE.  99 

it  with  clearness  and  method.  I  made  answer  that  as  to  the  first, 
I  had  taken  time  to  do  all  that  I  ever  pretended  to  do,  as  I  had 
thought  incessantly  on  different  matters  for  twenty  years  of  mv 
life*  ;  that  I  had  no  particular  knowledge  of  the  subject  in  ques- 
tion, and  no  head  for  arrangement ;  and  that  the  utmost  I  could 
do  in  such  a  case  would  be,  when  a  systematic  and  scientific 
article  was  prepared,  to  write  marginal  notes  upon  it,  to  insert  a 
remark  or  illustration  of  my  own  (not  to  be  found  in  former  En- 
cyclopedias) or  to  suggest  a  better  definition  than  had  been  offered 
in  the  text.  There  are  two  sorts  of  writing.  The  first  is  com- 
pilation ;  and  consists  in  collecting  and  stating  all  that  is  already 
known  of  any  question  in  the  best  possible  manner,  for  the  bene- 
fit of  the  uninformed  reader.  An  author  of  this  class  is  a  very 
learned  amanuensis  of  other  people's  thoughts.  The  second  sort 
proceeds  on  an  entirely  different  principle.  Instead  of  bringing 
down  the  account  of  knowledge  to  the  point  at  which  it  has 
already  arrived,  it  professes  to  start  from  that  point  on  the 
strength  of  the  writer's  individual  reflections ;  and  supposing  the 
reader  in  possession  of  what  is  already  known,  supplies  deficien- 
cies, fills  up  certain  blanks,  and  quits  the  beaten  road  in  search 
of  new  tracts  of  observation  or  sources  of  feeling.  It  is  in  vain 
to  object  to  this  last  style  that  it  is  disjointed,  disproportioned,  and 
irregular.  It  is  merely  a  set  of  additions  and  corrections  to  other 
men's  works,  or  to  the  common  stock  of  human  knowledge,  print- 
ed separately.  You  might  as  well  expect  a  continued  chain  of 
reasoning  in  the  notes  to  a  book.  It  skips  all  the  trite,  interme- 
diate, level  common-places  of  the  subject,  and  only  stops  at  the 
difficult  passages  of  the  human  mind,  or  touches  on  some  striking 
point  that  has  been  overlooked  in  previous  editions.  A  view  of 
a  subject,  to  be  connected  and  regular,  cannot  be  all  new.  A 
writer  will  always  be  liable  to  be  charged  either  with  paradox  or 
common-place,  either  with  dullness  or  affectation.  But  we  have 
no  right  to  demand  from  any  one  more  than  he  pretends  to. 
There  is  indeed  a  medium  in  all  things,  but  to  unite  opposite  ex- 
cellences, is  a  task  ordinarily  too  hard  for  mortality.     He  who 

*  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  being  asked  how  long  it  had  taken  him  to  do  a  cer 
tain  picture,  made  answer,  "  All  his  life." 

22 


100  TABLE  TALK. 


succeeds  in  what  he  aims  at,  or  who  takes  the  lead  in  any  one 
mode  or  path  of  excellence,  may  think  himself  very  well  off.  It 
would  not  be  fair  to  complain  of  the  style  of  an  Encyclopedia  as 
dull,  as  wanting  volatile  salt ;  nor  of  the  style  of  an  Essay  be- 
cause it  is  too  light  and  sparkling,  because  it  is  not  a  caput  mor- 
tuum.  So  it  is  rather  an  odd  objection  to  a  work  that  is  made  up 
entirely  of  "  brilliant  passages  " — at  least  it  is  a  fault  that  can 
be  found  with  few  works,  and  the  book  might  be  pardoned  for  its 
singularity.  The  censure  might  indeed  seem  like  adroit  flattery, 
if  it  were  not  passed  on  an  author  whom  any  objection  is  suffi- 
cient to  render  unpopular  and  ridiculous.  I  grant  it  is  best  to 
unite  solidity  with  show,  general  information  with  particular  inge- 
nuity. This  is  the  pattern  of  a  perfect  style  :  but  I  myself  do  not 
pretend  to  be  a  perfect  writer.  In  fine,  we  do  not  banish  light 
French  wines  from  our  tables,  or  refuse  to  taste  sparkling  Cham- 
pagne when  we  can  get  it,  because  it  has  not  the  body  of  Old 
Port.  Besides,  I  do  not  know  that  dulness  is  strength,  or  that  an 
observation  is  slight,  because  it  is  striking.  Mediocrity,  insipi- 
dity, want  of  character,  is  the  great  fault.  Mediocribus  esse  poe- 
tis  non  Dii,  non  homines,  non  concessere  columns.  Neither  is  this 
privilege  allowed  to  prose-writers  in  our  time,  any  more  than  to 
poets  formerly. 

It  is  not  then  acuteness  of  organs  or  extent  of  capacity  that 
constitutes  rare  genius  or  produces  the  most  exquisite  models  of 
art,  but  an  intense  sympathy  with  some  one  beauty  or  distinguish- 
ing characteristic  in  nature.  Irritability  alone,  or  the  interest 
taken  in  certain  things,  may  supply  the  place  of  genius  in  weak 
and  otherwise  ordinary  minds.  As  there  are  certain  instruments 
fitted  to  perform  certain  kinds  of  labor,  there  are  certain  minds 
so  framed  as  to  produce  certain  chef-cVccuvres  in  art  and  litera- 
ture, which  is  surely  the  best  use  they  can  be  put  to.  If  a  man 
had  all  sorts  of  instruments  in  his  shop  and  wanted  one,  he  would 
rather  have  that  one  than  be  supplied  with  a  double  set  of  all  the 
others.  If  he  had  them  all  twice  over,  he  could  only  do  what  he 
can  do  as  it  is,  whereas  without  that  one  he  perhaps  cannot  finish 
any  one  work  he  has  in  hand.  So  if  a  man  can  do  one  thing 
better  than  anybody  else,  the  value  of  this  one  thing  is  what  he 
must  stand  or  fall  by,  and  his  being  able  to  do  a  hundred  other 


ON  GENIUS  AND  COMMON  SENSE. 


things  merely  as  well  as  anybody  else,  would  not  alter  the  sen- 
tence or  add  to  his  respectability  ;  on  the  contrary,  his  being 
able  to  do  so  many  other  things  well  would  probably  interfere 
with  and  encumber  him  in  the  execution  of  the  only  thing  that 
others  cannot  do  as  well  as  he,  and  so  far  be  a  draw-back  and  a 
disadvantage.  More  people  in  fact  fail  from  a  multiplicity  of 
talents  and  pretensions  than  from  an  absolute  poverty  of  resour- 
ces. I  have  given  instances  of  this  elsewhere.  Perhaps  Shak- 
speare's  tragedies  would  in  some  respects  have  been  better,  if  he 
had  never  written  comedies  at  all ;  and  in  that  case,  his  come- 
dies might  well  have  been  spared,  though  they  might  have  cost 
us  some  regret.  Racine,  it  is  said,  might  have  rivalled  Moliere 
in  comedy  ;  but  he  gave  up  the  cultivation  of  his  comic  talents 
to  devote  himself  wholly  to  .he  tragic  Muse.  If,  as  the  French 
tell  us,  he  in  consequence  attained  to  the  perfection  of  tragic  com- 
position, this  was  better  than  writing  comedies  as  well  as  Mo- 
liere and  tragedies  as  well  as  Crebillon.  Yet  I  count  those  per. 
sons  fools  who  think  it  a  pity  Hogarth  did  not  succeed  better  ir 
serious  subjects.  The  division  of  labor  is  an  excellent  principle 
in  taste  as  well  as  in  mechanics.  Without,  this,  I  find  from 
Adam  Smith,  we  could  not  have  a  pin  made  to  the  degree  of  per- 
fection it  is.  We  do  not,  on  any  rational  scheme  of  criticism, 
inquire  into  the  variety  of  a  man's  excellences,  or  the  number  of 
his  works,  or  his  facility  of  production.  Venice  Preserved  is  suf- 
ficient for  Otway's  fame.  I  hate  all  those  nonsensical  stories 
about  Lopez  de  Vega  and  his  writing  a  play  in  a  morning  before 
breakfast.  He  had  time  enough  to  do  it  after.  If  a  man  leaves 
behind  him  any  work  which  is  a  model  in  its  kind,  we  have  no 
right  to  ask  whether  he  could  do  anything  else,  or  how  he  did  it, 
or  how  long  he  was  about  it.  All  that  talent  which  is  not  neces- 
sary to  the  actual  quantity  of  excellence  existing  in  the  world, 
loses  its  object,  is  so  much  waste  talent  or  talent  to  let.  I  heard 
a  sensible  man  say  he  should  like  to  do  some  one  thing  better 
than  all  the  rest  of  the  world,  and  in  everything  else  to  be  like 
all  the  rest  of  the  world.  Why  should  a  man  do  more  than  his 
part  ?  The  rest  is  vanity  and  vexation  of  spirit.  We  look  with 
jealous  and  grudging  eye  at  all  those  qualifications  which  are  not 
essential ;  first,  because  they  are  superfluous,  and  next,  because 


102  TABLE  TALK. 


we  suspect  they  will  be  prejudicial.  Why  does  Mr.  Kean  play 
all  those  harlequin  tricks  of  singing,  dancing,  fencing,  &c.  ? 
They  say,  "  It  is  for  his  benefit."  It  is  not  for  his  reputation. 
Garrick  indeed  shone  equally  in  comedy  and  tragedy.  But  he 
was  first,  not  second-rate  in  both.  There  is  not  a  greater  imper- 
tinence than  to  ask,  if  a  man  is  clever  out  of  his  profession.  I 
have  heard  of  people  trying  to  cross-examine  Mrs.  Siddons.  I 
would  as  soon  try  to  entrap  one  of  the  Elgin  Marbles  into  an 
argument.  Good  nature  and  common  sense  are  required  from 
all  people  :  but  one  proud  distinction  is  enough  for  any  one  indi- 
vidual to  possess  or  to  aspire  to  ! 


HOT  AND  COLD  103 


ESSAY   IX. 


Hot  and  Cold. 


M  Hot,  cold,  moist,  and  dry,  four  champions  fierce, 

Strive  here  for  mastery." — Milton. 

*'  The  Protestants  are  much  cleaner  than  the  Catholics,"  said  a 
shopkeeper  of  Vevay  to  me.  "  They  are  so,"  I  replied,  "  but 
why  should  they  ?"  A  prejudice  appeared  to  him  a  matter-of- 
fact,  and  he  did  not  think  it  necessary  to  assign  reasons  for  a  mat- 
ter-of-fact. That  is  not  my  way.  He  had  not  bottomed  his  pro- 
position on  proofs,  nor  rightly  defined  it. 

Nearly  the  same  remark,  as  to  the  extreme  cleanliness  of  the 
poeple  in  this  part  of  the  country,  had  occurred  to  me  as  soon  as 
I  got  to  Brigg,  where  however  the  inhabitants  are  Catholics.  So 
the  original  statement  requires  some  qualification  as  to  the  mode 
of  enunciation.  I  had  no  sooner  arrived  in  this  village,  which  is 
situated  just  under  the  Simplon,  and  where  you  are  surrounded 
with  glaciers  and  goitres,  than  the  genius  of  the  place  struck  me 
on  looking  out  at  the  pump  under  my  window  the  next  morning, 
where  the  "  neat-handed  Phyllises  "  were  washing  their  greens 
in  the  water,  that  not  a  caterpillar  could  crawl  on  them,  and 
scouring  their  pails  and  tubs  that  not  a  stain  should  be  left  in 
them.  The  raw,  clammy  feeling  of  the  air  was  in  unison  with 
the  scene.  I  had  not  seen  such  a  thing  in  Italy.  They  have 
there  no  delight  in  splashing  and  dabbling  in  fresh  streams  and 
fountains — they  have  a  dread  of  ablutions  and  abstersions,  almost 
amounting  to  hydrophobia.  Heat  has  an  antipathy  in  nature  to 
cold.  The  sanguine  Italian  is  chilled  and  shudders  at  the  touch 
of  cold  water,  while  the  Helvetian  boor,  whose  humors  creep 
through  his  veins  like  the  dank  mists  along  the  sides  of  his  frozen 
mountains,  is  "  native  and  endued  unto  that  element."  Here 
everything*  is  purified  and  filtered  :  there  it  is  baked  and  burnt 


104  TABLE  TALK 


up,  and  sticks  together  in  a  most  amicable  union  of  filth  and  lazi- 
ness. There  is  a  little  mystery  and  a  little  contradiction  in  the 
case — let  us  try  if  we  cannot  get  rid  of  both  by  means  of  caution 
and  daring  together.  It  is  not  that  the  difference  of  latitude  be- 
tween one  side  of  the  Alps  and  the  other  can  signify  much ;  but 
the  phlegmatic  blood  of  their  German  ancestors  is  poured  down 
the  valleys  of  the  Swiss  like  water,  and  iced  in  its  progress ; — 
whereas  that  of  the  Italians,  besides  its  vigorous  origin,  is  en- 
riched  and  ripened  by  basking  in  more  genial  plains.  A  single 
Milanese  market-girl  (to  go  no  farther  south)  appeared  to  me  to 
have  more  blood  in  her  body,  more  fire  in  her  eye  (as  if  the  sun 
had  made  a  burning  lens  of  it),  more  spirit  and  probably  more 
mischief  about  her  than  all  the  nice,  tidy,  good-looking,  hard- 
working girls  I  have  seen  in  Switzerland.  To  turn  this  physiog- 
nomical observation  to  a  metaphysical  account,  I  should  say  then 
that  Northern  people  are  clean  and  Southern  people  dirty  as  a 
general  rule,  because  where  the  principle  of  life  is  more  cold, 
weak,  and  impoverished,  there  is  a  greater  shyness  and  aversion 
to  come  in  contact  with  external  matter  (with  which  it  does  not. 
so  easily  amalgamate),  a  greater  fastidiousness  and  delicacy  in 
choosing  its  sensations,  a  greater  desire  to  know  surrounding  ob- 
jects and  to  keep  them  clear  of  each  other,  than  where  this  prin- 
ciple being  more  warm  and  active,  it  may  be  supposed  to  absorb 
outward  impressions  in  itself,  to  melt  them  into  its  own  essence, 
to. impart  its  own  vital  impulses  to  them,  and  in  fine,  instead  of 
shrinking  from  everything,  to  be  shocked  at  nothing.  The  South- 
ern temperament  is  (so  to  speak)  more  sociable  with  matter,  more 
gross,  impure,  indifferent,  from  relying  on  its  own  strength  ;  while 
that  opposed  to  it,  from  being  less  able  to  react  on  external  appli- 
cations, is  obliged  to  be  more  cautious  and  particular  as  to  the 
kind  of  excitement  to  which  it  renders  itself  liable.  Hence  the 
timidity,  reserve,  and  occasional  hypocrisy  of  Northern  manners  ; 
the  boldness,  freedom,  levity,  and  frequent  licentiousness  of 
Southern  ones.  It  would  be  too  much  to  say,  that  if  there  is  any- 
thing  of  which  a  genuine  Italian  has  a  horror,  it  is  of  cleanli- 
ness ;  or  that  if  there  is  anything  which  seems  ridiculous  to  a 
thoroughly-bred  Italian  woman,  it  is  modesty  :  but  certainly  the 
degree  to  which  nicety  is  carried  by  some  people  is  a  bore  to  an 


HOT  AND  COLD.  Wo 


Italian  imagination,  as  the  excess  of  delicacy  which  is  pretended 
or  practised  by  some  women  is  quite  incomprehensible  to  the 
females  of  the  South.  It  is  wrong,  however,  to  make  the  greater 
confidence  or  forwardness  of  manners  an  absolute  test  of  morals  : 
the  love  of  virtue  is  a  different  thing  from  the  fear  or  even  hatred 
of  vice.  The  squeamishness  and  prudery  in  the  one  case,  have 
a  more  plausible  appearance  ;  but  it  does  not  follow  that  there 
may  not  be  more  native  goodness  and  even  habitual  refinement  in 
the  other,  though  accompanied  with  stronger  nerves  and  a  less 
morbid  imagination.  But  to  return  to  the  first  question.*  I  can 
readily  understand  how  a  Swiss  peasant  should  stand  a  whole 
morning  at  a  pump,  washing  cabbages,  cauliflowers,  salads,  and 
getting  rid  half  a  dozen  times  over  of  the  sand,  dirt,  and  insects 
they  contain,  because  I  myself  should  not  only  be  gravelled  by 
meeting  with  the  one  at  table,  but  should  be  in  horrors  at  the 
other.  A  Frenchman  or  an  Italian  would  be  thrown  into  convul- 
sions of  laughter  at  this  superfluous  delicacy,  and  would  think  his 
repast  enriched  or  none  the  worse  for  such  additions.  The  re- 
luctance to  prey  on  life,  or  on  what  once  had  it,  seems  to  arise 
from  a  sense  of  incongruity,  from  the  repugnance  between  life 
and  death — from  the  cold,  clammy  feeling  which  belongs  to  the 
one,  and  which  is  enhanced  by  the  contrast  to  its  former  warm, 
lively  state,  and  by  the  circumstance  of  its  being  taken  into  the 
mouth,  and  devoured  as  food.  Hence  the  desire  to  get  rid  of  the 
idea  of  the- living  animal  even  in  ordinary  cases  by  all  the  dis- 
guises of  cookery,  of  boiled  and  roast,  and  by  the  artifice  of 
changing  the  name  of  the  animal  into  something  different  when 
it  becomes  food.j"     Hence  sportsmen  are  not  devourers  of  game, 

*  Women  abroad  (generally  speaking)  are  more  like  men  in  the  tone  of 
their  conversation  and  habits  of  thinking,  so  that  from  the  same  premises 
you  cannot  draw  the  same  conclusions  as  in  England. 

f  This  circumstance  is  noticed  in  Ivanhoe,  though  a  different  turn  is 
given  to  it  by  the  philosopher  of  Rotherwood. 

"  Nay,  I  can  tell  you  more,"  said  Wamba  in  the  same  tone,  "  there  is 
old  Alderman  Ox  continues  to  hold  his  Saxon  epithet,  while  he  is  under 
the  charge  of  serfs  and  bondsmen  such  as  thou  ;  but  becomes  Beef,  a  fiery 
French  gallant,  when  he  arrives  before  the,  worshipful  jaws  that  are  des- 
tined to  consume  him.  Mynheer  Calf  too  becomes  Monsieur  de  Veau  in 
like  manner:  he  is  Saxon  when  he  requires  tendance,  and  takes  a  Norman 
name  when  he  becomes  matter  of  enjoyment." — Vol.  i..  Chan,  1 

22 


106  TABLE  TALK. 


nd  hence  the  aversion  to  kill  the  animals  we  eat.*  There  is 
a  contradiction  between  the  animate  and  inanimate,  which  is  felt 
as  matter  of  peculiar  annoyance  by  the  more  cold  and  congealed 
temperament  which  cannot  so  well  pass  from  one  to  the  other  ; 
but  this  objection  is  easily  swallowed  by  the  inhabitant  of  gayer 
and  more  luxurious  regions,  who  is  so  full  of  life  himself  that  he 
can  at  once  impart  it  to  all  that  comes  in  his  way,  or  never  trou- 
bles himself  about  the  difference.  So  the  Neapolitan  bandit 
takes  the  life  of  his  victim  with  little  remorse,  because  he  has 
enough  and  to  spare  in  himself:  his  pulse  still  beats  warm  and 
vigorous,  while  the  blood  of  a  more  humane  native  of  the  frozen 
North  would  run  cold  with  horror  at  the  sight  of  the  stiffened 
corse,  and  this  makes  him  pause  before  he  stops  in  another  the 
gushing  source,  of  which  he  has  such  feeble  supplies  in  himself. 
The  wild  Arab  of  the  Desert  can  hardly  entertain  the  idea  of 
death,  neither  dreading  it  for  himself  nor  regretting  it  for  others. 
The  Italians,  Spaniards,  and  people  of  the  South  swarm  alive 
without  being  sick  or  sorry  at  the  circumstance  :  they  hunt  the 
accustomed  prey  in  each  other's  tangled  locks  openly  in  the  streets 
and  on  the  highways,  without  manifesting  shame  or  repugnance : 
combs  are  an  invention  of  our  Northern  climes.  Now  I  can  com- 
prehend this,  when  I  look  at  the  dirty,  dingy,  greasy,  sun- burnt 
complexion  of  an  Italian  peasant  or  beggar,  whose  body  seems 
alive  all  over  with  a  sort  of  tingling,  oily  sensation,  so  that  from 
any  given  particle  of  his  shining  skin  to  the  beast  "  whose  name 
signifies  love,"  the  transition  is  but  small.  This  populousness  is 
not  unaccountable  where  all  teems  with  life,  where  all  is  glowing 
and  in  motion,  and  every  pore  thrills  with  an  exuberance  of  feel- 
ing. Not  so  in  the  dearth  of  life  and  spirit,  in  the  drossy,  dry, 
material  texture,  the  clear  complexions  and  fair  hair  of  the  Saxon 
races,  where  the  puncture  of  an  insect's  sting  is  a  solution  of  their 
personal  identity,  and  the  idea  of  life  attached  to  and  courting  an 
intimacy  with  them  in  spite  of  themselves,  naturally  produces  all 
the  revulsions  of  the  most  violent  antipathy,  and  nearly  drives 
them  out  of  their  wits.     How  well   the  smooth  ivory  comb  and 

*  Hence  the  peculiar  horror  of  cannibalism  from  the  stronger  symp  \thy 
with  our  own  sensations,  and  the  greater  violence  that  is  done  to  it  by  the 
sacrilegious  use  of  what  once  possessed  human  life  and  feeling. 


HOT  AND  COLD  107 


auburn  hair  agree — while  the  G/eek  dandy,  on  entering  a  room, 
applies  his  hand  to  brush  a  cloud  of  busy  stragglers  from  his  hair 
like  powder,  and  gives  himself  no  more  concern  about  them  than 
about  the  motes  dancing  in  the  sun- beams !  The  dirt  of  the  Ita- 
lians is  as  it  were  baked  into  them,  and  so  ingrained  as  to  be- 
come a  part  of  themselves,  and  occasion  :/o  discontinuity  of  their 
being, 

I  can  forgive  the  dirt  and  sweat  of  a  gipsy  under  a  hedge, 
when  I  consider  that  the  earth  is  his  mother,  the  sun  is  his  father. 
He  hunts  vermin  for  food  :  he  is  himself  hunted  like  vermin  for 
prey.  His  existence  is  not  one  of  choice,  but  of  necessity.  The 
hungry  Arab  devours  the  raw  shoulder  of  a  horse.  This  again 
I  can  conceive.  His  feverish  blood  seethes  it,  and  the  virulence 
of  his  own  breath  carries  off  the  disagreeableness  of  the  smell.  I 
do  not  see  that  the  horse  should  be  reckoned  among  unclean  ani- 
mals, according  to  any  notions  I  have  of  the  matter.  The  divid- 
ing of  the  hoof  or  the  contrary,  I  should  think,  has  not  anything 
to  do  with  the  question.  I  can  understand  the  distinction  between 
beasts  of  prey  and  the  herbivorous  and  domestic  animals,  but  the 
horse  is  tame.  The  natural  distinction  between  clean  and  unclean 
animals  (which  has  been  sometimes  made  into  a  religious  one)  I 
take  to  depend  on  two  circumstances,  viz.  the  claws  and  bristly 
hide,  which  generally,  though  not  always,  go  together.  One 
would  not  wish  to  be  torn  in  pieces  instead  of  making  a  comforta- 
ble meal,  "  to  be  supped  upon"  where  we  thought  of  supping. 
With  respect  to  the  wolf,  the  tiger,  and  other  animals  of  the  same 
species,  it  seems  a  question  which  of  us  should  devour  the  other  : 
this  baulks  our  appetite  by  distracting  our  attention,  and  we  have 
so  little  relish  for  being  eaten  ourselves,  or  for  the  fangs  and  teeth 
of  these  shocking  animals,  that  it  gives  us  a  distaste  for  their 
whole  bodies.  The  horror  we  conceive  at  preying  upon  them 
arises  in  part  from  the  fear  we  had  of  being  preyed  upon  by  them. 
No  such  apprehension  crosses  the  mind  with  respect  to  the  deer, 
the  sheep,  the  hare — "here  all  is  conscience  and  tender  heart." 
These  gentle  creatures  (whom  we  compliment  as  useful)  offer  no 
resistance  to  the  knife,  and  there  is  therefore  nothing  shocking  or 
repulsive  in  the  idea  of  devoting  them  to  it.  There  is  no  confu 
sion  of  ideas,  but  a  beautiful  simplicity  and  uniformity  in  our  re- 

22* 


108  TABLE  TALK 


lation  to  each  other,  we  as  the  slayers,  they  as  the  slain.  A  per- 
fect understanding  subsists  on  the  subject.  The  hair  of  animals 
of  prey  is  also  strong  and  bristly,  and  forms  an  obstacle  to  our 
Epicurean  designs.  The  calf  or  fawn  is  sleek  and  smooth  :  the 
bristles  on  a  dog's  or  cat's  back  are  like  "  the  quills  upon  the 
fretful  porcupine,"  a  very  impracticable  repast  to  the  imagination, 
that  stick  in  the  throat  and  turn  the  stomach.  Who  has  not  read 
and  been  edified  by  the  account  of  the  supper  of  Gil  Bias  ?  Be- 
sides, there  is  also  in  all  probability  the  practical  consideration 
urged  by  Voltaire's  traveller,  who  being  asked  "  which  he  pre- 
ferred— black  mutton  or  white  ?"  replied,  "  Either,  provided  it 
was  tender."  The  greater  rankness  in  the  flesh  is  however  accom- 
panied by  a  corresponding  irritability  of  surface,  a  tenaciousness, 
a  pruriency,  a  soreness  to  attack,  and  not  that  fine,  round,  pam- 
pered passiveness  to  impressions  which  cuts  up  into  handsome 
joints  and  entire  pieces  without  any  fidgetty  process,  and  with  an 
obvious  view  to  solid,  wholesome  nourishment.  Swine's  flesh,  the 
abomination  of  the  Jewish  law,  certainly  comes  under  the  objec- 
tion here  stated  ;  and  the  bear  with  its  shaggy  fur  is  only  smug- 
gled into  the  Christian  larder  as  half-brother  to  the  wild  boar,  and 
because  from  its  lazy,  lumpish  character  and  appearance,  it  seems 
matter  of  indifference  whether  it  eats  or  is  eaten.  The  horse, 
with  sleek  round  haunches,  is  fair  game,  except  from  custom  ; 
and  I  think  I  could  survive  having  swallowed  part  of  an  ass's  foal 
without  being  utterly  loathsome  to  myself*  Mites  in  a  rotten 
cheese  are  endurable,  from  being  so  small  and  dry  that  they  are 

*  Thomas  Cooper  of  Manchester,  the  able  logician  and  political  partisan, 
tried  the  experiment  some  years  ago,  when  he  invited  a  number  of  gentle 
men  and  officers  quartered  in  the  town  to  dine  with  him  on  an  ass's  foal  in- 
stead of  a  calf 's-head,  on  the  anniversary  of  the  30th  of  January  The  cir- 
cumstance got  wind,  and  gave  great  offence.  Mr.  Cooper  had  to  attend  a 
county-meeting  soon  after  at  Boulton-le-Moors,  and  one  of  the  county  ma- 
gistrates coming  to  the  inn  for  the  same  purpose,  and  when  he  asked  "  If 
any  one  was  in  the  room  ?"  receiving  for  answer — "  No  one  but  Mr.  Cooper 
of  Manchester" — ordered  out  his  horse  and  immediately  rode  home  again. 
Some  verses  made  on  the  occasion  by  Mr.  Scarlett  and  Mr.  Shepherd  of 
Gateacre  explained  the  story  thus — 

"  The  reason  how  this  came  to  pass  is 

The  Justice  had  heard  that  Cooper  ate  asses !" 


HOT  AND  COLD.  j09 


scarce  distinguishable  from  the  atoms  of  the  cheese  itself,  "  so 
drossy  and  divisible  are  they  :"  but  the  Lord  deliver  me  from 
their  more  thriving  next-door  neighbors  !  Animals  that  are  made 
use  of  as  food  should  either  be  so  small  as  to  be  imperceptible,  or 
else  we  should  dig  into  the  quarry  of  life,  hew  away  the  masses, 
and  not  leave  the  form  standing  to  reproach  us  with  our  gluttony 
and  cruelty.  I  hate  to  see  a  rabbit  trussed,  or  a  hare  brought  to 
table  in  the  form  which  it  occupied  while  living  :  they  seem  to 
me  apparitions  of  the  burrowers  in  the  earth  or  the  rovers  in  the 
wood,  sent  to  scare  away  appetite.  One  reason  why  toads  and 
serpents  are  disgusting,  is  from  the  way  in  which  they  run  against 
or  suddenly  cling  to  the  skin  ;  the  encountering  them  causes  a 
solution  of  continuity,  and  we  shudder  to  feel  a  life  which  is  not 
ours  in  contact  with  us.  It  is  this  disjointed  or  imperfect  sympa- 
thy which  in  the  recoil  produces  the  greatest  antipathy.  Sterne 
asks  why  a  sword,  which  takes  away  life,  may  be  named  without 
offence,  though  other  things,  which  contribute  to  perpetuate  it, 
cannot  ?  Because  the  idea  in  the  one  case  is  merely  painful,  and 
there  is  no  mixture  of  the  agreeable  to  lead  the  imagination  on  to 
a  point  from  which  it  must  make  a  precipitate  retreat.  The 
morally  indecent  arises  from  the  doubtful  conflict  between  temp- 
tation and  duty  :  the  physically  revolting  is  the  product  of  alter- 
nate attraction  and  repulsion,  of  partial  adhesion,  or  of  something 
that  is  foreign  to  us  sticking  closer  te  our  persons  than  we  could 
wish.  The  nastiest  tastes  and  smells  are  not  the  most  pungent 
and  painful,  but  a  compound  of  sweet  and  bitter,  of  the  agreeable 
and  disagreeable  ;  where  the  sense,  having  been  relaxed  and  ren- 
dered effeminate  as  it  were  by  the  first,  is  unable  to  contend  with 
the  last,  faints  and  sinks  under  it,  and  has  no  way  of  relieving 
itself  but  by  violently  throwing  off  the  load  that  oppresses  it. 
Hence  loathing  and  sickness.  But  these  hardly  ever  arise  with- 
out something  contradictory  or  impure  in  the  objects,  or  unless  the 
mind,  having  been  invited  and  prepared  to  be  gratified  at  first,  this 
expectation  is  turned  to  disappointment  and  disgust.  Mere  pains, 
mere  pleasures  do  not  have  this  effect,  save  from  an  excess  of  the 
first  causing  insensibility  and  then  a  faintness  ensues,  or  of  the 
last,  causing  what  is  called  a  surfeit.  Sea-sickness  has  some 
analogy  to  this.     It  comes  on  with  that  unsettled  motion  of  tlio 


110  TABLE  TALK 


ship,  which  takes  away  the  ordinary  footing  or  firm  hold  we  have 
of  things,  and  by  relaxing  our  perceptions,  unbraces  the  whole 
nervous  system.  The  giddiness  and  swimming  of  the  head  on 
looking  down  a  precipice,  when  we  are  ready  with  every  breath 
of  imagination  to  topple  down  into  the  abyss,  has  its  source  in  the 
same  uncertain  and  rapid  whirl  of  the  fancy  through  possible  ex- 
tremes. Thus  we  find  that  for  cases  of  fainting,  sea-sickness, 
&c,  a  glass  of  brandy  is  recommended  as  "  the  sovereign'st  thing 
on  earth,"  because  by  grappling  with  the  coats  of  the  stomach 
and  bringing  our  sensations  to  a  focus,  it  does  away  that  nauseous 
fluctuation  and  suspense  of  feeling  which  is  the  root  of  the  mis- 
chief. I  do  not  know  whether  I  make  myself  intelligible,  for  the 
utmost  I  can  pretend  is  to  suggest  some  very  subtle  and  remote 
analogies  :  but  if  I  have  at  all  succeeded  in  opening  up  the  train 
of  argument  I  intend,  it  will  at  least  be  possible  to  conceive  how 
the  sanguine  Italian  is  less  nice  in  his  intercourse  with  material 
objects,  less  startled  at  incongruities,  less  liable  to  take  offence, 
than  the  more  literal  and  conscientious  German,  because  the  more 
headstrong  current  of  his  own  sensations  fills  up  the  gaps  and 
"  makes  the  odds  all  even."  He  does  not  care  to  have  his  cab- 
bages and  salads  washed  ten  times  over,  or  his  beds  cleared  of 
vermin :  he  can  lend  or  borrow  satisfaction  from  all  objects  in- 
differently. The  air  over  his  head  is  full  of  life,  of  the  hum  of 
insects ;  the  grass  under  his  feet  rings  and  is  loud  with  the  cry 
of  the  grasshopper  ;  innumerable  green  lizards  dart  from  the  rocks 
and  sport  before  him  :  what  signifies  it  if  any  living  creature  ap- 
proaches nearer  his  own  person,  where  all  is  one  vital  glow  ? 
The  Indian  even  twines  the  forked  serpent  round  his  hand  un- 
harmed, copper-colored  like  it,  his  veins  as  heated  ;  and  the  Brah- 
min cherishes  life  and  disregards  his  own  person  as  an  act  of  his 
religion — the  religion  of  fire  and  of  the  sun  !  Yet  how  shall  we 
reconcile  to  this  theory  the  constant  ablutions  (five  times  a  day) 
of  the  Eastern  nations,  and  the  squalid  customs  of  some  Northern 
people,  the  dirtiness  of  the  Russians  and  of  the  Scotch  ?  Super- 
stition may  perhaps  account  for  the  one,  and  poverty  and  bar- 
barism for  the  other.* 

*  What  a  plague  Moses  had  with  his  Jews  to  make  them  "  reform  and 
live  cleanly  !"     To  this  day  (according  to  a  learned  traveller)  the  Jews, 


HOT  AND  COLD.  Ill 


Laziness  has  a  great  deal  to  do  in  the  question,  and  this  again 
is  owing  to  a  state  of  feeling  sufficient  to  itself,  and  rich  in  enjoy- 
ment without  the  help  of  action.  Clothilde  (the  finest  and  darkest 
of  the  Gensano  girls)  fixes  herself  at  her  door  about  noon  (when 
her  day's  work  is  done) :  her  smile  reflects  back  the  brightness 
of  the  sun,  she  darts  upon  a  little  girl  with  a  child  in  her  arms, 
nearly  overturns  both,  devours  it  with  kisses,  and  then  resumes 
her  position  at  the  door,  with  her  hands  behind  her  back  and  her 
shoes  down  at  heel.  This  slatternliness  and  negligence  is  the 
more  remarkable  in  so  fine  a  girl,  and  one  whose  ordinary  cos- 
tume is  a  gorgeous  picture,  but  it  is  a  part  of  the  character  ;  her 
dress  would  never  have  been  so  rich,  if  she  could  take  more  pains 
about  it — they  have  no  nervous  or  fidgetty  feeling  whether  a  thing 
is  coming  off  or  not :  all  their  sensations,  as  it  were,  sit  loose  upon 
them.  Their  clothes  are  no  part  of  themselves, — they  even  fling 
their  limbs  about  as  if  they  scarcely  belonged  to  them ;  the  heat 
in  summer  requires  the  utmost  freedom  and  airiness  (which  be- 
comes a  habit),  and  they  have  nothing  tight-bound  or  strait-laced 
about  their  minds  or  bodies.  The  same  girl  in  winter  (for  "  dull, 
cold  winter  does  inhabit  here  "  also)  would  have  a  scaldalelto  (an 
earthen  pan  with  coals  in  it)  dangling  at  her  wrists  for  four  months 
together,  without  any  sense  of  incumbrance  or  distraction,  or  any 
other  feeling  but  of  the  heat  it  communicated  to  her  hands.  She 
does  not  mind  its  chilling  the  rest  of  her  body  or  disfiguring  her 
hands,  making  her  fingers  look  like  "  long  purples " — these 
children  of  nature  "  take  the  good  the  Gods  provide  them,"  and 
trouble  themselves  little  about  consequences  or  appearances. 
Their  self-will  is  much  stronger  than  their  vanity — they  have  as 
little  curiosity  about  others  as  concern  for  their  good  opinion. 
Two  Italian  peasants  talking  by  the  roadside  will  not  so  much  as 
turn  their  heSds  to  look  at  an  English  carriage  that  is  passing. 
They  have  no  interest  except  in  what  is  personal,  sensual.  Hence 
they  have  as  little  tenaciousness  on  the  score  of  property  as  in  the 
acquisition  of  ideas.     They  want  neither.     Their  good  spirits  are 

vherever  scattered,  have  an  aversion  to  agriculture  and  almost  to  its  pro- 
lucts ;  and  a  Jewish  girl  will  refuse  to  accept  a  flower— if  you  offer  her  a 
piece  of  money,  of  jewellery  or  embroidery,  she  knows  well  enough  what  to 
make  of  the  proffered  courtesy.     See  Hacquefs  Travels  in  Carpathia,  Sfc 


M2  TABLE  TALK. 


food,  clothing,  and  books  to  them.  They  are  fond  of  comfort  too, 
but  their  notion  of  it  differs  from  ours — ours  consists  in  accumu- 
lating the  means  of  enjoyment,  theirs  in  being  free  to  enjoy,  in 
the  dear  far  niente.  What  need  have  they  to  encumber  them- 
selves  with  furniture  or  wealth  or  business,  when  all  they  require 
(for  the  most  part)  is  air,  a  bunch  of  grapes,  bread,  and  stone- 
walls ?  The  Italians,  generally  speaking,  have  nothing,  do 
nothing,  want  nothing, — to  the  surprise  of  foreigners,  who  ask  how 
they  live  ?  The  men  are  too  lazy  to  be  thieves,  the  women  to  be 
something  else.  The  dependence  of  the  Swiss  and  English  on 
their  comforts,  that  is,  on  all  "  appliances  and  means  to  boot,"  as 
nelps  to  enjoyment  or  hindrances  to  annoyance,  makes  them  not 
only  eager  to  procure  different  objects  of  accommodation  and 
luxury,  but  makes  them  take  such  pains  in  their  preservation  and 
embellishment,  and  pet  them  so  when  acquired.  "  A  man,"  says 
Yorick,  "  finds  an  apple,  spits  upon  it,  and  calls  it  his."  The 
more  any  one  finds  himself  clinging  to  material  objects  for  exist- 
ence or  gratification,  the  more  he  will  take  a  personal  interest  in 
them,  and  the  more  will  he  clean,  repair,  polish,  scrub,  scour,  and 
tug  at  them  without  end,  as  if  it  were  his  own  soul  that  he  was 
keeping  clear  from  spot  or  blemish.  A  Swiss  dairy-maid  scours 
the  very  heart  out  of  a  wooden  pail ;  a  scullion  washes  the  taste 
as  well  as  the  worms  out  of  a  dish  of  brocoli.  The  wenches  are 
in  like  manner  neat  and  clean  in  their  own  persons,  but  insipid. 
The  most  coarse  and  ordinary  furniture  in  Switzerland  has  more 
pains  bestowed  upon  it  to  keep  it  in  order,  than  the  finest  works 
of  art  in  Italy.  There  the  pictures  are  suffered  to  moulder  on  the 
walls  ;  and  the  Claudes  in  the  Doria  Palace  at  Rome  are  black 
with  age  and  dirt.  We  set  more  store  by  them  in  England,  where 
we  have  scarce  any  other  sunshine  !  At  the  common  inns  on  this 
side  the  Simplon,  the  very  sheets  have  a  character"for  whiteness 
to  lose ;  the  rods  and  testers  of  the  beds  are  like  a  peeled  wand. 
On  the  opposite  side  you  are  thankful  when  you  are  not  shown 
into  an  apartment  resembling  a  three-stalled  stable,  with  horse- 
cloths for  coverlids  to  hide  the  dirt,  and  beds  of  horse-hair  or 
withered  leaves  as  harborage  for  vermin.  The  more,  the  mer- 
rier ;  the  dirtier,  the  warmer ;  live  and  let  live,  seem  maxims  in- 
culcated by  the  climate.     Wherever  things  are  not  kept  carefullv 


HOT  AND  COLD.  ,13 


apart  from  foreign  admixtures  and  contamination,  the  distinctions 
of  property  itself  will  not,  I  conceive,  be  held  exceedingly  sacred. 
This  feeling  is  strong  as  the  passions  are  weak.  A  people  that 
are  remarkable  for  cleanliness,  will  be  so  for  industry,  for  hones- 
ty, for  avarice,  and  vice  versa.  The  Italians  cheat,  steal,  rob 
(when  they  think  it  worth  their  while  to  do  so)  with  licensed  im 
punity  :  the  Swiss,  who  feel  the  value  of  property,  and  labor  in- 
cessantly  to  acquire  it,  are  afraid  to  lose  it.  At  Brigg  I  first  heard 
the  cry  of  watchmen  at  night,  which  I  had  not  heard  for  many 
months.  I  was  reminded  of  the  traveller  who  after  wandering  in 
remote  countries  saw  a  gallows  near  at  hand,  and  knew  by  this 
circumstance  that  he  approached  the  confines  of  civilisation.  The 
police  in  Italy  is  both  secret  and  severe,  but  it  is  directed  chiefly 
to  political  and  not  to  civil  matters.  Patriot  sighs  are  heaved  un- 
heard in  the  dungeons  of  St.  Angelo  :  the  Neapolitan  bandit 
breathes  the  free  air  of  his  native  mountains  ! 

It  may  by  this  time  be  conjectured  wtiy  Catholics  are  less 
cleanly  than  Protestants,  because  in  fact  they  are  less  scrupulous, 
and  swallow  whatever  is  set  before  them  in  matters  of  faith  as  well 
as  other  things.  Protestants,  as  such,  are  captious  and  scrutiniz- 
ing, try  to  pick  holes  and  find  fault, — have  a  dry,  meagre,  penu- 
rious imagination.  Catholics  are  buoyed  up  over  doubts  and  diffi- 
culties by  a  greater  redundance  of  fancy,  and  make  religion  sub- 
servient to  a  sense  of  enjoyment.  The  one  are  for  detecting  and 
weeding  out  all  corruptions  and  abuses  in  doctrine  or  worship : 
the  others  enrich  theirs  with  the  dust  and  cobwebs  of  antiquity, 
and  think  their  ritual  none  the  worse  for  the  tarnish  of  age. 
Those  of  the  Catholic  Communion  are  willing  to  take  it  for  granted 
that  everything  is  right ;  the  professors  of  the  Reformed  religion 
have  a  pleasure  in  believing  that  everything  is  wrong,  in  order 
that  they  may  have  to  set  it  right.  In  morals,  again,  Protestants 
are  more  precise  than  their  Catholic  brethren.  The  creed  of  the 
latter  absolves  them  of  half  their  duties,  of  all  those  that  are  a 
clog  on  their  inclinations,  atones  for  all  slips,  and  patches  up  all 
deficiencies.  But  though  this  may  make  them  less  censorious 
and  sour,  I  am  not  sure  that  it  renders  them  less  in  earnest  in  the 
part  they  do  perform.  When  more  is  left  to  freedom  of  choice, 
perhaps  the  service  that  is  voluntary  will  be  pur^r  and  more 

SECOND    SERIES — PART  I.  9 


114  TABLE  TALK. 

effectual.  That  which  is  not  so  may  as  well  be  done  by  proxy; 
or  if  it  does  not  come  from  the  heart,  may  be  suffered  to  exhale 
merely  from  the  lips.  If  less  is  owing  in  this  case  to  a  dread  of 
»'ice  and  fear  of  shame,  more  will  proceed  from  a  love  of  virtue, 
iree  from  the  least  sinister  construction.  It  is  asserted  that  Italian 
women  are  more  gross ;  I  can  believe  it,  and  that  they  are  at  the 
same  time  more  refined  than  others.  Their  religion  is  in  the  same 
manner  more  sensual :  but  is  it  not  to  the  full  as  visionary  and 
imaginative  as  any  ?  I  have  heard  Italian  women  say  things  that 
others  would  not — it  does  not  therefore  follow  that  they  would  do 
them  :  partly  because  the  knowledge  of  vice  that  makes  it  familiar 
renders  it  indifferent ;  and  because  the  same  masculine  tone  of 
thinking  that  enables  them  to  confront  vice,  may  raise  them  above 
it  into  a  higher  sphere  of  sentiment.  If  their  senses  are  more 
inflammable,  their  passions  (and  their  love  of  virtue  and  of  reli- 
gion among  the  rest)  may  glow  with  proportionable  ardor.  Indeed 
the  truest  virtue  is  that  which  is  least  susceptible  of  contamination 
from  its  opposite.  I  may  admire  a  Raphael,  and  yet  not  swoon 
at  sight  of  a  daub.  Why  should  there  not  be  the  same  taste  in 
morals  as  in  pictures  or  poems  ?  Granting  that  vice  has  more 
votaries  here,  at  least  it  has  fewer  mercenary  ones,  and  this  is  no 
trifling  advantage.  As  to  manners,  the  Catholics  must  be  allowed 
to  carry  it  over  all  the  world.  The  better  sort  not  only  say  nothing 
to  give  you  pain ;  they  say  nothing  of  others  that  it  would  give 
them  pain  to  hear  repeated.  Scandal  and  tittle-tattle  are  long 
banished  from  good  society.  After  all,  to  be  wise  is  to  be  humane. 
What  would  our  English  blue-stockings  say  to  this  ?  The  fault 
and  the  excellence  of  Italian  society  is,  that  the  shocking  or  dis- 
agreeable is  not  supposed  to  have  an  existence  in  the  nature  of 
things.* 

*  The  dirt  and  comparative  want  of  conveniences  among  Catholics  is  often 
attributed  to  the  number  of  their  Saints'  days  and  festivals,  which  divert 
fiem  from  labor,  and  give  them  an  idle  and  disorderly  turn  of  mind. 


ON  THOUGHT  AND  ACTION.  115 


ESSAY  X. 

On  thought  and  action. 

Those  persons  who  are  much  accustomed  to  abstract  contempla. 
tion  are  generally  unfitted  for  active  pursuits  and  vice  versa.  1 
myself  am  sufficiently  decided  and  dogmatical  in  my  opinions, 
and  yet  in  action  I  am  as  imbecile  as  a  woman  or  a  child.  I 
cannot  set  about  the  most  indifferent  thing  without  twenty  efforts, 
and  had  rather  write  one  of  these  Essays  than  have  to  seal  a 
letter.  In  trying  to  throw  a  hat  or  a  book  upon  a  table  I  miss 
it ;  it  just  reaches  the  edge  and  falls  back  again,  and  instead  of 
doing  what  I  mean  to  perform,  I  do  what  I  intend  to  avoid. 
Thought  depends  on  the  habitual  exercise  of  the  speculative 
faculties ;  action  on  the  determination  of  the  will.  The  one 
assigns  reasons  for  things,  the  other  puts  causes  into  act.  Abra- 
ham Tucker  relates  of  a  friend  of  his,  an  old  special  pleader, 
that  once  coming  out  of  his  chambers  in  the  Temple  with  him  to 
take  a  walk,  he  hesitated  at  the  bottom  of  the  stairs  which  way 
to  go — proposed  different  directions,  to  Charing-Cross,  to  St.  Paul's 
— found  some  objection  to  them  all,  and  at  last  turned  back  for 
want  of  a  casting  motive  to  incline  the  scale.  Tucker  gives 
this  as  "an  instance  of  professional  indecision,  or  of  that  temper 
of  mind  which  having  been  long  used  to  weigh  the  reasons  for 
things  with  scrupulous  exactness,  could  not  come  to  any  conclu- 
sion at  all  on  the  spur  of  the  occasion,  or  without  some  grave 
distinction  to  justify  its.  choice.  Louvet,  in  his  Narrative,  tells 
us,  that  when  several  of  the  Brissotin  party  were  collected  at  the 
house  of  Barbaroux  (I  think  it  was)  ready  to  effect  their  escape 
from  the  power  of  Robespierre,  one  of  them  going  to  the  window 
and  finding  a  shower  of  rain  coming  on,  seriously  advised  their 
stopping  till  the  next  morning,  for  that  the  emissaries  of  govern- 
ment would  not  think  of  coming  in  search  of  them  in  such  bad 
weather.     Some  of  them  deliberated  on  this  wise  proposal,  and 


113  TABLE  TALK. 


were  nearly  taken.  Such  is  the  effeminacy  of  the  speculative 
and  philosophical  temperament,  compared  with  the  promptness 
and  vigor  of  the  practical  !  It  is  on  such  unequal  terms  that  the 
refined  and  romantic  speculators  on  possible  good  and  evil  con- 
tend  with  their  strong-nerved,  remorseless  adversaries,  and  we 
see  the  result.  Reasoners  in  general  are  undecided,  wavering, 
and  sceptical,  or  yield  at  last  to  the  weakest  motive,  as  most  con- 
genial to  their  feeble  habit  of  soul.* 

Some  men  are  mere  machines.  They  are  put  in  a  go-cart  of 
business,  and  are  harnessed  to  a  profession — yoked  to  fortune's 
wheels.  They  plod  on,  and  succeed.  Their  affairs  conduct 
them,  not  they  their  affairs.  All  they  have  to  do  is  to  let  things 
take  their  course,  and  not  go  out  of  the  beaten  road.  A  man 
may  carry  on  the  business  of  farming  on  the  same  spot  and 
principle  that  his  ancestors  have  done  for  many  generations  be- 
fore him  without  any  extraordinary  share  of  capacity  :  the  proof 
is,  it  is  done  every  day  in  every  county  and  parish  in  the  king- 
dom.  All  that  is  necessary  is  that  he  should  not  pretend  to  be 
wiser  than  his  neighbors.  If  he  has  a  grain  more  wit  or  pene- 
tration than  they,  if  his  vanky  gets  the  start  of  his  avarice  only 
half  a  neck,  if  he  has  ever  thought  or  read  anything  upon  the 
subject,  it  will  most  probably  be  the  ruin  of  him.  He  will  turr. 
theoretical  or  experimental  farmer,  and  no  more  need  be  said. 
Mr.  Cobbett,  who  is  a  sufficiently  shrewd  and  practical  man, 
with  an  eye  also  to  the  main  chance,  had  got  some  notions  in  his 
head  (from  Tull's  Husbandry)  about  the  method  of  sowing  tur- 
nips, to  which  he  would  have  sacrificed  not  only  his  estate  at 
Botley,  but  his  native  county  of  Hampshire  itself,  sooner  than 
give  up  an  inch  of  his  argument.  "  Tut !  will  you  baulk  a  man 
in  the  career  of  his  humor?"  Therefore,  that  a  man  may  not 
be  ruined  by  his  humors,  he  should  be  too  dull  and  phlegmatic  to 
have  any  :  he  must  have  "  no  figures  nor  no  fantasies  which  busy 

*  When  Bonaparte  left  the  Chamber  of  Deputies  to  go  and  fight  his 
last  fatal  battle,  he  advised  them  not  to  be  debating  the  forms  of  Constitu- 
tions when  the  enemy  was  at  their  gates.  Benjamin  Constant  thought 
otherwise.  He  wanted  to  play  a  game  at  cafs-cradle  between  the  Repub- 
licans and  Royalists,  and  lost  hi  >  v.  atch.  He  did  not  care,  so  that  he  ham 
pereu  a  more  emcient  man  man  lumseu. 


ON  THOUGHT  AND  ACTION.  117 

thought  draws  in  the  brains  of  men."  The  fact  is,  that  the  in- 
genuity or  judgment  of  no  one  man  is  equal  to  that  of  the  world 
at  large,  which  is  the  fruit  of  the  experience  and  ability  of  all 
mankind.  Even  where  a  man  is  right  in  a  particular  notion,  he 
will  be  apt  to  over-rate  the  importance  of  his  discovery,  to  the 
detriment  of  his  affairs.  Action  requires  co-operation,  but  in 
general  if  you  set  your  face  against  custom,  people  will  set  their 
faces  against  you.  They  cannot  tell  whether  you  are  right  or 
wrong,  but  they  know  that  you  are  guilty  of  a  pragmatical 
assumption  of  superiority  over  them,  which  they  do  not  like. 
There  is  no  doubt  that  if  a  person  two  hundred  years  ago  had 
foreseen  and  attempted  to  put  in  practice  the  most  approved  and 
successful  methods  of  cultivation  now  in  use,  it  would  have  been 
a  death-blow  to  his  credit  and  fortune.  So  that  though  the 
experiments  and  improvements  of  private  individuals  from  time  to 
time  gradually  go  to  enrich  the  public  stock  of  information  and 
reform  the  general  practice,  they  are  mostly  the  ruin  of  the  per- 
son who  makes  them,  because  he  takes  a  part  for  the  whole,  and 
lays  more  stress  upon  the  single  point  in  which  he  has  found 
others  in  the  wrong,  than  on  all  the  rest  in  which  they  are  sub- 
stantially and  prescriptively  in  the  right.  The  great  requisite, 
it  should  appear  then,  for  the  prosperous  management  of  ordinary 
business,  is  the  want  of  imagination,  or  of  any  ideas  but  those 
of  custom  and  interest  on  the  narrowest  scale  : — and  as  the  affairs 
of  the  world  are  necessarily  carried  on  by  the  common  run  of 
its  inhabitants,  it  seems  a  wise  dispensation  of  Providence  that  it 
should  be  so.  If  no  one  could  rent  a  piece  of  glebe-land  without 
a  genius  for  mechanical  inventions,  or  stand  behind  a  counter 
without  a  large  benevolence  of  soul,  what  would  become  of  the 
commercial  and  agricu'tural  interest  of  this  great  (and  once 
flourishing)  country  ?  I  would  not  be  understood  as  saying  tha* 
there  is  not  what  may  be  called  a  genius  for  business,  an  extra 
ordinary  capacity  for  affairs,  quickness  and  comprehension  united, 
an  insight  into  character,  an  acquaintance  with  a  number  of  par- 
ticular circumstances,  a  variety  of  expedients,  a  tact  for  finding 
out  what  will  do :  I  grant  all  this  (in  Liverpool  and  Manchester 
they  would  persuade  you  that  your  merchant  and  manufacturer 
is  your  only  gentleman   and  scholar) — but  still,  making  every 


118  TABLE  TALK. 

allowance  for  the  difference  between  the  liberal  trader  and  the 
sneaking  shop-keeper,  I  doubt  whether  the  most  surprising  suc- 
cess is  to  be  accounted  for  from  any  such  unusual  attainments,  or 
whether  a  man's  making  half  a  million  of  money  is  a  proof 
of  his  capacity  for  thought  in  general.  It  is  much  oftener 
owing  to  views  and  wishes  bounded  but  constantly  directed  to 
one  particular  object.  To  succeed,  a  man  should  aim  only  at 
success.  The  child  of  Fortune  should  resign  himself  into  the 
hands  of  Fortune.  A  plotting  head  frequently  overreaches  itself: 
a  mind  confident  of  its  resources  and  calculating  powers  enters 
on  critical  speculations,  which,  in  a  game  depending  so  much  on 
chance  and  unforeseen  events,  and  not  entirely  on  intellectual 
skill,  turn  the  odds  greatly  against  any  one  in  the  long  run.  The 
rule  of  business  is  to  take  what  you  can  get,  and  keep  what  you 
have  got :  or  an  eagerness  in  seizing  every  opportunity  that  offers 
for  promoting  your  own  interest,  and  a  plodding  persevering  in- 
dustry in  making  the  most  of  the  advantages  you  have  already 
obtained,  are  the  most  effectual  as  well  as  safest  ingredients  in 
the  composition  of  the  mercantile  character.  The  world  is  a 
book  in  which  the  Chapter  of  Accidents  is  none  of  the  least  con- 
siderable ;  or  it  is  a  machine  that  must  be  left,  in  a  great  mea- 
sure, to  turn  itself.  The  most  that  a  worldly-minded  man  can 
do  is,  to  stand  at  the  receipt  of  custom,  and  be  constantly  on  the 
look-out  for  windfalls.  The  true  devotee  in  this  way  waits  for 
the  revelations  of  Fortune  as  the  poet  waits  for  the  inspiration  of 
the  Muse,  and  does  not  rashly  anticipate  her  favors.  He  must 
be  neither  capricious  nor  wilful.  I  have  known  people  untram- 
melled in  the  ways  of  business,  but  with  so  intense  an  apprehen- 
sion of  their  own  interest,  that  they  would  grasp  at  the  slightesl 
possibility  of  gain  as  a  certainty,  and  were  led  into  as  many  mis- 
takes by  an  over-griping  usurious  disposition  as  they  could  have 
been  by  the  most  thoughtless  extravagance. — We  hear  a  great 
outcry  about  the  want  of  judgment  in  men  of  genius.  It  is  not 
a  want  of  judgment,  but  an  excess  of  other  things.  They  err 
knowingly,  and  are  wilfully  blind.  The  understanding  is  out  of 
the  question.  The  profound  judgment  which  soberer  people 
pique  themselves  upon  is  in  truth  a  want  of  passion  and  imagina- 
tion.    Give  them  an  interest  in  anything,  a  sudden  fancy,  a  bait 


ON  THOUGHT  AND  ACTION.  119 

for  their  favorite  foible,  and  who  so  besotted  as  they  ?  Stir  their 
feelings,  and  farewell  to  their  prudence  1  The  understanding 
operates  as  a  motive  to  action  only  in  the  silence  of  the  passions. 
I  have  heard  people  of  a  sanguine  temperament  reproached  with 
betting  according  to  their  wishes,  instead  of  their  opinion  who 
should  win  :  and  I  have  seen  those  who  reproached  them  do  the 
very  same  thing  the  instant  their  own  vanity  or  prejudices  were 
concerned.  The  most  mechanical  people,  once  thrown  off  their 
balance,  are  the  most  extravagant  and  fantastical.  What  passion 
is   there  so  unmeaning  and  irrational  as  avarice  itself?     The 

Dutch  went  mad  for  tulips,  and for  love  ! — To  return 

to  what  was  said  a  little  way  back,  a  question  might  be  started, 
whether,  as  thought  relates  to  the  whole  circumference  of  things 
and  interests,  and  business  is  confined  to  a  very  small  part  of 
them,  viz.  to  a  knowledge  of  a  man's  own  affairs  and  the  making 
of  his  own  fortune,  whether  a  talent  for  the  latter  will  not  gene- 
rally exist  in  proportion  to  the  narrowness  and  grossness  of  his 
ideas,  nothing  drawing  his  attention  out  of  his  own  sphere,  or 
giving  him  an  interest  except  in  those  things  which  he  can  realize 
and  bring  home  to  himself  in  the  most  undoubted  shape  ?  To 
the  man  of  business  all  the  world  is  a  fable  but  the  Stock-Ex- 
change :  to  the  money-getter  nothing  has  a  real  existence  that  he 
cannot  convert  into  a  tangible  feeling,  that  he  does  not  recognize 
as  property,  that  he  cannot  "  measure  with  a  two-foot  rule  or 
count  upon  ten  fingers."  The  want  of  thought,  of  imagination, 
drives  the  practical  man  upon  immediate  realities :  to  the  poet  or 
philosopher  all  is  real  and  interesting  that  is  true  or  possible, 
that  can  reach  in  its  consequences  to  others,  or  be  made  a  subject 
of  curious  speculation  to  himself! 

But  is  it  right,  then,  to  judge  of  action  by  the  quantity  of 
thought  implied  in  it,  any  more  than  it  would  be  to  condemn  a 
life  of  contemplation  for  being  inactive  ?  Or  has  not  everything 
a  source  and  principle  of  its  own,  to  which  we  should  refer  it, 
and  not  to  the  principles  of  other  things  ?  He  who  succeeds  in 
any  pursuit  in  which  others  fail,  may  be  presumed  to  have  quali- 
ties of  some  sort  or  other  which  they  are  without.  If  he  has 
not  brilliant  wit,  he  may  have  solid  sense  ;  if  he  has  not  subtlety 
of  understanding,  he  may  have  energy  and  firmness  of  purpose, 


120  TABLE  TALK. 


if  he  has  only  a  few  advantages,  he  may  have  modesty  and  pru- 
dence to  make  the  most  of  what  he  possesses.  Propriety  is  one 
great  matter  in  the  conduct  of  life  ;  which,  though  like  a  grace- 
ful carriage  of  the  body,  it  is  neither  definable  nor  striking  at 
first  sight,  is  the  result  of  finely  balanced  feelings,  and  lends  a 
secret  strength  and  charm  to  the  whole  character. 

Quicquid  agit,  quoquo  vestigia  vertit, 

Componit  furtim,  subsequiturque  decor. 

There  are  more  ways  than  one  in  which  the  various  faculties  of 
the  mind  may  unfold  themselves.  Neither  words,  nor  ideas  re- 
ducible to  words,  constitute  the  utmost  limit  of  human  capacity. 
Man  is  not  a  merely  talking  nor  a  merely  reasoning  animal.  Let 
us  then  take  him  as  he  is,  instead  of  "  curtailing  him  of  nature's 
fair  proportions  "  to  suit  our  previous  notions.  Doubtless,  there 
are  great  characters  both  inactive  and  contemplative  life.  There 
have  been  heroes  as  well  as  sages,  legislators  and  founders  of 
religion,  historians  and  able  statesmen  and  generals,  inventors  of 
useful  arts  and  instruments,  and  explorers  of  undiscovered  coun- 
tries, as  well  as  writers  and  readers  of  books.  It  will  not  do  to 
set  all  these  aside  under  any  fastidious  or  pedantic  distinction. 
Comparisons  are  odious,  because  they  are  impertinent,  and  lead 
only  to  the  discovery  of  defects  by  making  one  thing  the  standard 
of  another  which  has  no  relation  to  it.  If,  as  some  one  proposed, 
we  were  to  institute  an  inquiry,  "Which  was  the  greatest  man, 
Milton  or  Cromwell,  Bonaparte  or  Rubens  ?" — we  should  have 
all  the  authors  and  artists  on  one  side,  and  all  the  military  men 
and  the  whole  diplomatic  body  on  the  other,  who  would  set  to 
work  with  all  their  might  to  pull  in  pieces  the  idol  of  the  other 
party  ;  and  the  longer  the  dispute  continued,  the  more  would  each 
grow  dissatisfied  with  his  favorite,  though  determined  to  allow  no 
merit  to  any  one  else.  The  mind  is  not  well  competent  to  take 
in  the  full  impression  of  more  than  one  style  of  excellence  ot  one 
extraordinary  character  at  once ;  contradictory  claims  puzzle 
and  stupefy  it ;  and  however  admirable  any  individual  may  be 
in  himself,  and  unrivalled  in  his  particular  way,  yet  if  we  try 
him  by  others  in  a  totally  opposite  class,  that  is,  if  we  consHei 
not  what  he  was  but  what  he  was  not,  he  will  be   found  to  be 


ON  THOUGHT  AND  ACTION.  121 

nothing.  We  do  not  reckon  up  the  excellences  on  either  side, 
for  then  these  would  satisfy  the  mind  and  put  an  end  to  the  com- 
parison :  we  have  no  way  of  exclusively  setting  up  our  favorite 
but  by  running  down  his  supposed  rival ;  and  for  the  gorgeous 
hues  of  Rubens,  the  lofty  conceptions  of  Milton,  the  deep  policy 
and  cautious  daring  of  Cromwell,  or  the  dazzling  exploits  and 
fatal  ambition  of  the  modern  chieftain,  the  poet  is  transformed  into 
a  pedant,  the  artist  sinks  into  a  mechanic,  the  politician  turns  out 
no  better  than  a  knave,  and  the  hero  is  exalted  into  a  madman. 
It  is  as  easy  to  get  the  start  of  our  antagonist  in  argument  by  frivo- 
lous and  vexatious  objections  to  one  side  of  the  question,  as  it  is 
difficult  to  do  full  and  heaped  justice  to  the  other.  If  I  am  asked 
which  is  the  greatest  of  those  who  have  been  the  greatest  in  dif- 
ferent ways,  I  answer  the  one  that  we  happen  to  be  thinking  of 
at  the  time,  for  while  that  is  the  case,  we  can  conceive  of  nothing 
higher.  If  there  is  a  propensity  in  the  vulgar  to  admire  the 
achievements  of  personal  prowess  or  instances  of  fortunate  enter- 
prise too  much,  it  cannot  be  denied  that  those  who  have  to  weigh 
out  and  dispense  the  meed  of  fame  in  books,  have  been  too  much 
disposed,  by  a  natural  bias,  to  confine  all  merit  and  talent  to  the 
productions  of  the  pen,  or  at  least  to  those  works  which,  being 
artificial  or  abstract  representations  of  things,  are  transmitted  to 
posterity,  and  cried  up  as  models  in  their  kind.  This,  though 
unavoidable,  is  hardly  just.  Actions  pass  away  and  are  forgot- 
ten, or  are  only  discernible  in  their  effects  :  conquerors,  states- 
men, and  kings  live  by  their  names  stamped  on  the  page  of  his- 
tory.  Hume  says  rightly  that  more  people  think  about  Virgil 
and  Homer  (and  that  continually)  than  ever  trouble  their  heads 
about  Caesar  or  Alexander.  In  fact,  poets  are  a  longer-lived  race 
than  heroes  :  they  breathe  more  of  the  air  of  immortality.  They 
survive  more  entire  in  their  thoughts  and  acts.  We  have  all 
that  Virgil  or  Homer  did,  as  much  as  if  we  had  lived  at  the  same 
time  with  them  :  we  can  hold  their  works  in  our  hands,  or  lay 
them  on  our  pillows,  or  put  them  to  our  lips.  Scarcely  a  trace 
of  what  the  others  did  is  left  upon  the  earth,  so  as  to  be  visible  to 
common  eyes.  The  one,  the  dead  authors,  are  living  men,  still 
breathing  and  moving  in  their  writings.  The  others,  the  con- 
ouerors  of  the  world,  are  but  the  ashes  in  an  urn.     The  sympa- 


122  TABLE  TALK. 


thy  (so  to  speak)  between  thought  and  thought  is  more  intimate 
and  vital  than  that  between  thought  and  action.  Thought  is 
linked  to  thought  as  flame  kindles  into  flame  :  the  tribute  of  ad- 
miration to  the  manes  of  departed  heroism  is  like  burning  incense 
in  a  marble  monument.  Words,  ideas,  feelings,  with  the  progress 
of  time  harden  into  substances  :  things,  bodies,  actions,  moulder 
away,  or  melt  into  a  sound,  into  thin  air  !  Yet  though  the 
Schoolmen  in  the  middle  ages  disputed  more  about  the  texts  of 
Aristotle  than  the  battle  of  Arbela,  perhaps  Alexander's  Generals 
in  his  life-time  admired  his  pupil  as  much,  and  liked  him  better. 
For  not  only  a  man's  actions  are  effaced  and  vanish  with  him  ; 
his  virtuous  and  generous  qualities  die  with  him  also : — his  in- 
tellect only  is  immortal,  and  bequeathed  unimpaired  to  posterity. 
Words  are  the  only  things  that  last  for  ever. 

If  however  the  empire  of  words  and  general  knowledge  is  more 
durable  in  proportion  as  it  is  abstracted  and  attenuated,  it  is  less 
immediate  and  dazzling  :  if  authors  are  as  good  after  they  are 
dead  as  when  they  were  living,  while  living  they  might  as  well 
be  dead  :  and  moreover  with  respect  to  actual  ability,  to  write  a 
book  is  not  the  only  proof  of  taste,  sense,  or  spirit,  as  pedants  would 
have  us  suppose.  To  do  anything  well,  to  paint  a  picture,  to 
fight  a  battle,  to  make  a  plough  or  a  threshing-machine,  requires, 
one  would  think,  as  much  skill  and  judgment  as  to  talk  about  or 
write  a  description  of  it  when  done.  Words  are  universal,  intel- 
ligible signs,  but  they  are  not  the  only  real,  existing  things.  Did 
not  Julius  Caesar  show  himself  as  much  of  a  man  in  conducting 
his  campaigns  as  in  composing  his  Commentaries  ?  Or  was  the 
Retreat  of  the  Ten  Thousand  under  Xenophon,  or  his  work  of 
that  name,  the  most  consummate  performance  ?  Or  would  not 
Lovelace,  supposing  him  to  have  existed  and  to  have  conceived 
and  executed  all  his  fine  stratagems  on  the  spur  of  the  occasion, 
have  been  as  clever  a  fellow  as  Richardson,  who  invented  them 
in  cold  blood  ?  If  to  conceive  and  describe  an  heroic  character 
is  the  height  of  a  literary  ambition,  we  can  hardly  make  it  out 
that  to  be  and  to  do  all  that  the  wit  of  man  can  feign,  is  nothing. 
To  use  means  to  ends,  tc  set  causes  in  motion,  to  wield  the  ma- 
chine of  society,  to  subject  the  wills  of  others  to  your  own,  to 
manage  abler  men  than  yourself  by  means  of  that  which  is  stron. 


ON  THOUGHT  AND  ACTION.  123 

ger  in  them  than  their  wisdom, 'viz.  their  weakness  and  their  folly, 
to  calculate  the  resistance  of*  ignorance  and  prejudice  to  your  de- 
signs, and  hy  obviating  to  turn  them  to  account,  to  foresee  a  long, 
obscure,  and  complicated  train  of  events,  of  chances  and  openings 
of  success,  to  unwind  the  web  of  others'  policy,  and  weave  your 
own  out  of  it,  to  judge  of  the  effects  of  things  not  in  the  abstract 
but  with  reference  to  all  their  bearings,  ramifications  and  impe- 
diments, to  understand  character  thoroughly,  to  see  latent  talent 
or  lurking  treachery,  to  know  mankind  for  what  they  are,  and 
use  them  as  they  deserve,  to  have  a  purpose  steadily  in  view  and 
to  effect  it  after  removing  every  obstacle,  to  master  others  and  be 
true  to  yourself,  asks  power  and  knowledge,  both  nerves  and 
brain. 

Such  is  the  sort  of  talent  that  may  be  shown,  and  that  has  been 
possessed  by  the  great  leaders  on  the  stage  of  the  world.  To 
accomplish  great  things  argues,  1  imagine,  great  resolution  :  to 
design  great  things  implies  no  common  mind.  Ambition  is  in  some 
sort  genius.  Though  I  would  rather  wear  out  my  life  in  arguing 
a  broad  speculative  question  than  in  caballing  for  the  election  to 
a  wardmote,  or  canvassing  for  votes  in  a  rotten  borough,  yet  I 
should  think  that  the  loftiest  Epicurean  philosopher  might  descend 
from  his  punctilio  to  identify  himself  with  the  support  of  a  great 
principle,  or  to  prop  a  falling  state.  This  is  what  the  legislators 
and  founders  of  empire  did  of  old  ;  and  the  permanence  of  their 
institutions  showed  the  depth  of  the  principles  from  which  they 
emanated.  A  tragic  poem  is  not  the  worse  for  acting  well  :  if  it 
will  not  bear  this  test,  it  savors  of  effeminacy.  Well-digested 
schemes  will  stand  the  touchstone  of  experience.  Great  thoughts 
reduced  to  practice  become  great  acts.  Again,  great  acts  grow 
out  of  great  occasions,  and  great  occasions  spring  from  great 
principles,  working  changes,  in  society,  and  tearing  it  up  by  the 
roots.  But  still  I  conceive  that  a  genius  for  action  depends 
essentially  on  the  strength  of  the  will  rather  than  on  that  of  the 
understanding  ;  that  the  long-headed  calculation  of  causes  and 
consequences  arises  from  the  energy  of  the  first  cause,  which  is 
the  will,  setting  others  in  motion  and  prepared  ,to  anticipate  the 
results  ;  that  its  sagacity  is  activity  delighting  in  meeting  diffi- 
culties and  adventures  more  than  halfway,  and  its  wisdom  cour- 

23 


124  v        TABLE  TALK. 


age  not  to  shrink  from  danger,  but  to  redouble  its  efforts  with  op. 
position.  Its  humanity,  if  it  has  much,  is  magnanimity  to  spare 
the  vanquished,  exulting  in  power  but  not  prone  to  mischief,  with 
good  sense  enough  to  be  aware  of  the  instability  of  fortune,  and 
with  some  regard  to  reputation.  What  may  serve  as  a  criterion 
to  try  this  question  by  is  the  following  consideration,  that  we 
sometimes  find  as  remarkable  a  deficiency  of  the  speculative 
faculty  coupled  with  great  strength  of  will  and  consequent  success 
in  active  life,  as  we  do  a  want  of  voluntary  power  and  total  inca- 
pacity for  business,  frequently  joined  to  the  highest  mental  quali- 
fications. In  some  cases  it  will  happen  that  "  to  be  wise,  is  to  be 
obstinate."  If  you  are  deaf  to  reason  but  stick  to  your  own  pur- 
poses, you  will  tire  others  out,  and  bring  them  over  to  your  way 
of  thinking.  Self-will  and  blind  prejudice  are  the  best  defence 
of  actual  power  and  exclusive  advantages.  The  forehead  of  the 
late  king  was  not  remarkable  for  the  character  of  intellect,  but 
the  lower  part  of  his  face  was  expressive  of  strong  passions  and 
fixed  resolution.  Charles  Fox  had  an  animated,  intelligent  eye, 
and  brilliant,  elastic  forehead  (with  a  nose  indicating  fine  taste), 
but  the  lower  features  were  weak,  unsettled,  fluctuating,  and 
without  purchase — it  was  in  them  the  Whigs  were  defeated. 
What  a  fine  iron  binding  Bonaparte  had  round  his  face,  as  if  it 
had  been  cased  in  steel  !  What  sensibility  about  the  mouth  ! 
Wiiat  watchful  penetration  in  the  eye  !  What  a  smooth,  unruf- 
fled forehead  !  Mr.  Pitt,  with  little  sunken  eyes,  had  a  high, 
retreating  forehead,  and  a  nose  expressing  pride  and  aspiring  self- 
opinion  :  it  was  on  that  (with  submission)  that  he  suspended  the 
decision  of  the  House  of  Commons,  and  dangled  the  Opposition  as 
he  pleased.  Lord  Castlereagh  is  a  man  rather  deficient  than 
redundant  in  words  and  topics.  He  is  not  (any  more  than  St.  Au- 
gustine was,  in  the  opinion  of  La  Fontaine)  so  great  a  wit  as 
Rabelais,  nor  is  he  so  great  a  philosopher  as  Aristotle  :  but  he 
has  that  in  him  which  is  not  to  be  trifled  with.  He  has  a  noble 
mask  of  a  face  (not  well  filled  up  in  the  expression,  which  is 
relaxed  and  dormant),  with  a  fine  person  and  manner.  On  the 
strength  of  these  he  hazards  his  speeches  in  the  House.  He  has 
also  a  knowledge  of  mankind,  and  of  the  composition  of  the  House. 
He  takes  a  thrust  which  he  cannot  parry  on  his  shield — is,  "  all 


ON  THOUGHT  AND  ACTION.  125 

tranquillity  and  smiles  "  under  a  volley  of  abuse,  sees  when  to 
pay  a  compliment  to  a  wavering  antagonist,  soothes  the  melting 
mood  of  his  hearers,  or  gets  up  a  speech  full  of  indignation,  and 
knows  how  to  bestow  his  attentions  on  that  great  public  body, 
whether  he  wheedles  or  bullies,  so  as  to  bring  it  to  compliance. 
With  a  long  reach  of  undefined  purposes  (the  result  of  a  temper 
too  indolent  for  thought,  too  violent  for  repose)  he  has  equal  per- 
severance and  pliancy  in  bringing  his  objects  to  pass.  I  would 
rather  be  Lord  Castlereagh,  as  far  as  a  sense  of  power  is  con- 
cerned (principle  is  out  of  the  question),  than  such  a  man  as  Mr. 
Canning,  who  is  a  mere  fluent  sophist,  and  never  knows  the  limits 
of  discretion,  or  the  effect  which  will  be  produced  by  what  he 
says,  except  as  far  as  florid  common-places  may  be  depended  on. 
Bonaparte  is  referred  by  Mr.  Coleridge  to  the  class  of  active 
rather  than  of  intellectual  characters :  and  Cowley  has  left  an 
invidious  but  splendid  eulogy  on  Oliver  Cromwell,  which  sets  out 
on  much  the  same  principle.  "  What,"  he  says,  "  can  be  more 
extraordinary,  than  that  a  person  of  mean  birth,  no  fortune,  no 
eminent  qualities  of  body,  which  have  sometimes,  or  of  mind, 
which  have  often  raised  men  to  the  highest  dignities,  should  have 
the  courage  to  attempt,  and  the  happiness  to  succeed  in,  so  im- 
probable a  design,  as  the  destruction  of  one  of  the  most  ancient 
and  most  solidly-founded  monarchies  upon  the  earth  ?  That  he 
should  have  the  power  or  boldness  to  put  his  prince  and  master  to 
an  open  and  infamous  death  ;  to  banish  that  numerous  and 
strongly-allied  family ;  to  do  all  this  under  the  name  and  wages 
of  a  Parliament ;  to  trample  upon  them  too  as  he  pleased,  and 
spurn  them  out  of  door  when  he  grew  weary  of  them  ;  to  raise 
up  a  new  and  unheard-of  monster  out  of  their  ashes ;  to  stifle 
that  in  the  very  infancy,  and  set  up  himself  above  all  things  that 
ever  were  called  sovereign  in  England  ;  to  oppress  all  his  ene- 
mies "by  arms,  and  all  his  friends  afterwards  by  artifice  ;  to  serve 
all  parties  patiently  for  a  while,  and  to  command  them  victori- 
ously at  last ;  to  over-run  each  corner  of  the  three  nations,  and 
overcome  with  equal  facility  both  the  riches  of  the  south  and  the 
poverty  of  the  north  ;  to  be  feared  and  courted  by  all  foreign 
princes,  and  adopted  a  brother  to  the  Gods  of  the  earth  ;  to  call 
together  Parliaments  with  a  word  of  his  pen,  and  scatter  them 


126  TABLE  TALK. 


again  with  the  breath  of  his  mouth  ;  to  be  humbly  and  daily  pe- 
titioned that  he  would  please  to  be  hired,  at  the  rate  of  two  mil- 
lions a  year,  to  be  the  master  of  those  who  had  hired  him  before 
to  be  their  servant ;  to  have  the  estates  and  lives  of  three  king- 
doms as  much  at  his  disposal,  as  was  the  little  inheritance  of  his 
father,  and  to  be  as  noble  and  liberal  in  the  spending  of  them  ; 
and  lastly  (for  there  is  no  end  of  all  the  particulars  of  his  glory) 
to  bequeath  all  this  with  one  word  to  his  posterity  ;  to  die  with 
peace  at  home,  and  triumph  abroad  ;  to  be  buried  among  kings, 
and  with  more  than  regal  solemnity  ;  and  to  leave  a  name  behind 
him,  not  to  be  extinguished  but  with  the  whole  world  ;  which  as 
it  is  now  too  little  for  his  praises,  so  might  have  been  too  [narrow] 
for  his  conquests,  if  the  short  line  of  his  human  life  could  have 
been  stretched  out  to  the  extent  of  his  immortal  designs  !" 

Cromwell  was  a  bad  speaker  and  a  worse  writer.  Milton  wrote 
his  dispatches  for  him  in  elegant  and  erudite  Latin :  and  the  pen 
of  the  one,  like  the  sword  of  the  other,  was  "  sharp  and  sweet." 
We  have  not  that  union  in  modern  times  of  the  heroic  and  lite- 
rary character  which  was  common  among  the  ancients.  Julius 
Csesar  and  Xenophon  recorded  their  own  acts  with  equal  clear 
ness  of  style  and  modesty  of  temper.  The  Duke  of  Wellington 
(worse  off  than  Cromwell)  is  obliged  to  get  Mr.  Mudford  to  write 
the  History  of  his  Life.  Sophocles,  ./Eschylus,  and  Socrates, 
were  distinguished  for  their  military  prowess  among  their  contem- 
poraries, though  now  only  remembered  for  what  they  did  in  poe- 
try and  philosophy.  Cicero  and  Demosthenes,  the  two  greatest 
orators  of  antiquity,  appear  to  have  been  cowards  :  nor  does 
Horace  seem  to  give  a  very  favorable  picture  of  his  martia. 
achievements.  But  in  general  there  was  not  that  division  in  the 
labors  of  the  mind  and  body  among  the  Greeks  and  Romans  that 
has  been  introduced  among  us  either  by  the  progress  of  civilisa- 
tion or  by  a  greater  slowness  and  inaptitude  of  parts.  The 
French,  for  instance,  appear  to  unite  a  number  of  accomplish- 
ments, the  literary  character  and  the  man  of  the  world,  better 
than  we  do.  Among  us  a  scholar  is  almost  another  name  for  a 
pedant  or  a  clown  :  it  is  not  so  with  them.  Their  philosophers 
and  wits  went  into  the  world,  and  mingled  in  the  society  of  the 
fair      Of  this  there  needs  no  other  proof  than  the  spirited  print 


ON  THOUGHT  AND  ACTION.  127 

of  most  of  the  great  names  in  French  literature,  to  whom  Mo- 
lidre  is  reading  a  comedy  in  the  presence  of  the  celebrated  Ninon 
de  1'Enclos.  D'Alembert,  one  of  the  first  mathematicians  of  his 
age,  was  a  wit,  a  man  of  gallantry  and  letters.  With  us  a  learned 
man  is  absorbed  in  himself  and  some  particular  study,  and  minds 
nothing  else.  There  is  something  ascetic  and  impracticable  in  his 
very  constitution,  and  he  answers  to  the  description  of  the  Monk 
in  Spenser — 

"  From  every  work  he  challenged  essoin 
For  contemplation's  sake  " 

Perhaps  the  superior  importance  attached  to  the  institutions  of 
religion,  as  well  as  the  more  abstracted  and  visionary  nature  of 
its  objects,  has  led  (as  a  general  result)  to  a  wider  separation  be- 
tween thought  and  action  in  modern  times.  Ambition  is  of  a 
higher  and  more  heroic  strain  than  avarice.  Its  objects  are 
nobler,  and  the  means  by  which  it  attains  its  ends  less  mecha- 
nical. 

"  Better  be  lord  of  them  that  riches  have, 
Than  riches  have  myself,  and  be  their  servile  slave." 

The  incentive  to  ambition  is  the  love  of  power ;  the  spur  to 
avarice  is  either  the  fear  of  poverty,  or  a  strong  desire  of  self- 
indulgence.  The  amassers  of  fortunes  seem  divided  into  two  • 
opposite  classes,  lean,  penurious-looking  mortals,  or  jolly  fellows 
who  are  determined  to  get  possession  of,  because  they  want  to 
enjoy  the  good  things  of  the  world.  The  one  have  famine  and  a 
work-house  always  before  their  eyes ;  the  others,  in  the  fullness 
of  their  persons  and  the  robustness  of  their  constitutions,  seem  to 
bespeak  the  reversion  of  a  landed  estate,  rich  acres,  fat  beeves,  a 
substantial  mansion,  costly  clothing,  a  chine  and  turkey,  choice 
wines,  and  all  other  good  things  consonant  to  the  wants  and  full- 
fed  desires  of  their  bodies.  Such  men  charm  fortune  by  the 
sleekness  of  their  aspects  and  the  goodly  rotundity  of  their  honest 
faces,  as  the  others  scare  away  poverty  by  their  wan,  meagre 
looks.  The  last  starve  themselves  into  riches  by  care  and  cark- 
ing  :  the  first  eat,  drink,  and  sleep  their  way  into  the  good  things 


12S  TABLE  TALK. 


of  this  life.     The  greatest  number  of  warm  men  in  the  city  are 

good,  jolly  fellows.     Look  at  Sir  William ,  Callipash  and 

callipee  are  written  in  his  face  :  he  rolls  about  his  unwieldy  bulk 
in  a  sea  of  turtle-soup.  How  many  haunches  of  venison  does 
he  carry  on  his  back  !  He  is  larded  with  jobs  and-  contracts  ;  he 
is  stuffed  and  swelled  out  with  layers  of  bank-notes,  and  invita- 
tions  to  dinner !  His  face  hangs  out  a  flag  of  defiance  to  mis- 
chance :  the  roguish  twinkle  in  his  eye  with  which  he  lures  half 

the  city  and   beats  Alderman hollow,  is  a  smile  reflected 

from  heaps  of  unsunned  gold  !  Nature  and  Fortune  are  not  so 
much  at  variance  as  to  differ  about  this  fellow.  To  enjoy  the 
goods  the  Gods  provide  us,  is  to  deserve  it.  Nature  meant  him 
for  a  Knight,  Alderman,  and  City-Member  ;  and  Fortune  laughed 
to  see  the  goodly  person  and  prospects  of  the  man  !*  I  am 
not,  from  certain  early  prejudices,  much  given  to  admire 
the  ostentatious  marks  of  wealth  (there  are  persons  enough  to 

*  A  thorough  fitness  for  any  end  implies  the  means.  Where  there  is  9 
will,  there  is  a  way.  A  real  passion,  an  entire  devotion  to  any  object 
always  succeeds.  The  strong  sympathy  with  what  we  wish  and  imagine, 
realizes  it,  dissipates  all  obstacles,  and  removes  all  scruples.  The  disap- 
pointed lover  may  complain  as  much  as  he  pleases.  He  was  himself  to 
blame.  He  was  a  half-witted,  wishy-washy  fellow.  His  love  might  be  as 
great  as  he  makes  it  out :  but  it  was  not  his  ruling  passion.  His  fear,  his 
pride,  his  vanity  was  greater.  Let  any  one's  whole  soul  be  steeped  in  this 
passion,  let  him  think  and  care  for  nothing  else,  let  nothing*divert,  cool,  or 
intimidate  him,  let  the  ideal  feeling  become  an  actual  one  and  take  posses- 
sion of  his  whole  faculties,  looks  and  manner,  let  the  same  voluptuous 
hopes  and  wishes  govern  his  actions  in  the  presence  of  his  mistress  that 
haunt  his  fancy  in  her  absence,  and  I  will  answer  for  his  success.  But  I 
will  not  answer  for  the  success  of  "  a  dish  of  skimmed  milk  "  in  such  a 
case.  I  could  always  get  to  see  a  fine  collection  of  pictures  myself.  The 
fact  is,  I  was  set  upon  it.  Neither  the  surliness  of  porters,  nor  the  imper- 
tinence of  footmen  could  keep  me  back.  I  had  a  portrait  of  Titian  in  my 
eye,  and  nothing  could  put  me  out  in  my  determination.  If  that  had  not 
(as  it  were)  been  looking  on  me  all  the  time  I  was  battling  my  way,  I  should 
have  been  irritated  or  disconcerted,  and  gone  away.  But  my  liking  to  the 
end  conquered  my  scruples  or  aversion  to  the  means.  I  never  understood 
the  Scotch  character  but  on  these  occasions.  I  would  not  take  "  No  "  for 
an  answer.  If  I  had  wanted  a  place  under  government,  or  a  writership  to 
India,  I  could  have  got  it  from  the  same  importunity,  and  on  the  same 
terms. 


ON  THOUGHT  AND  ACTION.  129 

admire  ihem  without  me) — but  I  confess,  there  is  something  in  the 
look  of  the  old  banking-houses  in  Lombard-street,  the  posterns 
covered  with  mud,  the  doors  opening  sullenly  and  silently,  the  ab- 
sence of  all  pretence,  the  darkness  and  the  gloom  within,  the 
gleaming  of  lamps  in  the  day-time, 

"  Like  a  faint  shadow  of  uncertain  light," 

that  almost  realizes  the  poetical  conception  of  the  cave  of  Mam- 
mon in  Spenser,  where  dust  and  cobwebs  concealed  the  roofs  and 
pillars  of  solid  gold,  and  lifts  the  mind  quite  off  its  ordinary 
hinges.  The  account  of  the  manner  in  which  the  founder  of 
Guy's  Hospital  accumulated  his  immense  wealth  has  always  to 
me  something  romantic  in  it,  from  the  same  force  of  contrast.  He 
was  a  little  shop-keeper,  and  out  of  his  savings  bought  Bibles,  and 
purchased  seamen's  tickets  in  Queen  Anne's  wars,  by  which  he 
left  a  fortune  of  two  hundred  thousand  pounds.  The  story  sug- 
gests the  idea  of  a  magician ;  nor  is  there  anything  in  the  Ara- 
bian Nights  that  looks  more  like  a  fiction. 

SECOND   SERIES — PART  I.  23 


130  TABLE  TALK 


ESSAY  XL 

On  a  portrait  of  an  English  lady,  by  Vandyke. 

The  portrait  I  speak  of  is  in  the  Louvre,  where  it  is  numbered 
416,  and  the  only  account  of  it  in  the  Catalogue  is  that  of  a  Lady 
and  her  daughter.  It  is  companion  to  another  whole-length  by 
the  same  artist,  No.  417,  of  a  Gentleman  and  a  little  girl.  Both 
are  evidently  English. 

The  face  of  the  lady  has  nothing  very  remarkable  in  it,  but 
that  it  may  be  said  to  be  the  very  perfection  of  the  English  fe- 
male face.  It  is  not  particularly  beautiful,  but  there  is  a  sweet- 
ness in  it,  and  a  goodness  conjoined,  which  is  inexpressibly  de- 
lightful. The  smooth  ivory  forehead  is  a  little  ruffled,  as  if  some 
slight  cause  of  uneasiness,  like  a  cloud,  had  just  passed  over  it. 
The  eyes  are  raised  with  a  look  of  timid  attention  ;  the  mouth  is 
compressed  with  modest  sensibility  ;  the  complexion  is  delicate 
and  clear ;  and  over  the  whole  figure  (which  is  seated)  there 
reign  the  utmost  propriety  and  decorum.  The  habitual  gentle- 
ness of  the  character  seems  to  have  been  dashed  with  some 
anxious  thought  or  momentary  disquiet,  and,  like  the  shrinking 
flower,  in  whose  leaves  the  lucid  drop  yet  trembles,  looks  out  and 
smiles  at  the  storm  that  is  overblown.  A  mother's  tenderness,  a 
mother's  fear,  appears  to  flutter  on  the  surface,  and  on  the  ex- 
treme verge  of  the  expression,  and  not  to  have  quite  subsided 
into  thoughtless  indifference  or  mild  composure.  There  is  a  re- 
flection of  the  same  expression  in  the  little  child  at  her  knee, 
who  turns  her  head  round  with  a  certain  appearance  of  constraint 
and  innocent  wonder ;  and  perhaps  it  is  the  difficulty  of  getting 
her  to  sit  (or  to  sit  still)  that  has  caused  the  transient  contraction 
of  her  mother's  brow, — that  lovely,  unstained  mirror  of  pure 
affection,  too  fair,  too  delicate,  too  soft  and  feminine  for  the  breath 
of  serious  misfortune  ever  to  come  near,  or  not  to  crush  it.     It  is 


ON  A  PORTRAIT  BY  VANDYKE.  131 

a  face,  in  short,  of  the  greatest  purity  and  sensibility,  sweetness 
and  simplicity,  or  such  as  Chaucer  might  have  described 

"  Where  all  is  conscience  and  tender  heart." 

I  have  saia  that  it  is  an  English  face ;  and  I  may  add  (without 
being  invidious)  that  it  is  not  a  French  one.  I  will  not  say  that 
they  have  no  face  to  equal  this ;  of  that  I  am  not  a  judge  ;  but 
I  am  sure  they  have  no  face  equal  to  this,  in  the  qualities  by 
which  it  is  distinguished.  They  may  have  faces  as  amiable,  but 
then  the  possessors  of  them  will  be  conscious  of  it.  There  may 
be  equal  elegance,  but  not  the  same  ease  ;  there  may  be  even 
greater  intelligence,  but  without  the  innocence  ;  more  vivacity, 
but  then.it  will  run  into  petulance  or  coquetry;  in  short,  there 
may  be  every  other  good  quality  but  a  total  absence  of  all  pre- 
tension to  or  wish  to  make  a  display  of  it,  but  the  same  unaffected 
modesty  and  simplicity.  In  French  faces  (and  I  have  seen  some 
that  were  charming  both  for  the  features  and  expression)  there  is 
a  varnish  of  insincerity,  a  something  theatrical  or  meretricious  ; 
but  here,  every  particle  is  pure  to  the  "  last  recesses  of  the 
mind."  The  face  (such  as  it  is,  and  it  has  a  considerable  share 
both  of  beauty  and  meaning)  is  without  the  smallest  alloy  of 
affectation.  There  is  no  false  glitter  in  the  eyes  to  make  them 
look  brighter :  no  little  wrinkles  about  the  corners  of  the  eye- 
lids, the  effect  of  self-conceit ;  no  pursing  up  of  the  mouth,  no 
significant  leer,  no  primness,  no  extravagance,  no  assumed  levity 
or  gravity.  You  have  the  genuine  text  of  nature  without  gloss 
or  comment.  There  is  no  heightening  of  conscious  charms  to 
produce  greater  effect,  no  studying  of  airs  and  graces  in  the  glass 
of  vanity.  You  have  not  the  remotest  hint  of  the  milliner,  the 
dancing-master,  the  dealer  in  paints  and  patches.  You  have  be- 
fore you  a  real  English  lady  of  the  seventeenth  century,  who 
looks  like  one,  because  she  cannot  look  otherwise ;  whose  ex- 
pression of  sweetness,  intelligence,  or  concern  is  just  what  is 
natural  to  her,  and  what  the  occasion  requires  ;  whose  entire 
demeanor  is  the  emanation  of  her  habitual  sentiments  and  dis- 
position, and  who  is  as  free  from  guile  or  affectation  as  the  little 
child  by  her  side.     I  repeat  that  this  is  not  the  distinguishing 

23* 


132  TABLE  TALK. 


character  of  the  French  physiognomy,  which,  at  its  best,  is  often 
spoiled  by  a  consciousness  of  what  it  is,  and  a  restless  desire  to 
be  something  more. 

Goodness  of  disposition,  with  a  clear  complexion  and  handsome 
features,  is  the  chief  ingredient  in  English  beauty.  There  is  a 
great  difference  in  this  respect  between  Vandyke's  portraits  of 
women  and  Titian's,  of  which  we  may  find  examples  in  the 
Louvre.  The  picture,  which  goes  by  the  name  of  his  Mistress, 
is  one  of  the  most  celebrated  of  the  latter.  The  neck  of  this 
picture  is  like  a  broad  crystal  mirror ;  and  the  hair  which  she 
holds  so  carelessly  in  her  hand  is  like  meshes  of  beaten  gold. 
The  eyes  which  roll  in  their  ample  sockets,  like  two  shining  orbs, 
and  which  are  turned  away  from  the  spectator,  only  dart  their 
glances  the  more  powerfully  into  the  soul ;  and  the  whoje  picture 
is  a  paragon  of  frank  cordial  grace,  and  transparent  brilliancy 
of  coloring.  Her  tight  boddice  compresses  her  full  but  finely 
proportioned  waist ;  while  the  tucker  in  part  conceals  and  almost 
clasps  the  snowy  bosom.  But  you  never  think  of  anything  be- 
yond the  personal  attractions,  and  a  certain  sparkling  intelligence. 
She  is  not  marble,  but  a  fine  piece  of  animated  clay.  There  is 
none  of  that  retired  and  shrinking  character,  that  modesty  of  de- 
meanor, that  sensitive  delicacy,  that  starts  even  at  the  shadow  of 
evil — that  are  so  evidently  to  be  traced  in  the  portrait  by  Van- 
dyke. Still  there  is  no  positive  vice,  no  meanness,  no  hypocrisy, 
but  an  unconstrained  elastic  spirit  of  self-enjoyment,  more  bent 
on  the  end  than  scrupulous  about  the  means  ;  with  firmly  braced 
nerves,  and  a  tincture  of  vulgarity.  She  is  not  like  an  English 
lady,  nor  like  a  lady  at  all ;  but  she  is  a  very  fine  servant-girl, 
conscious  of  her  advantages,  and  willing  to  make  the  most 
of  them.  In  fact,  Titian's  Mistress  answers  exactly,  I  conceive, 
to  the  idea  conveyed  by  the  English  word,  sweetheart. — The 
Marchioness  of  Guasto  is  a  fairer  comparison.  She  is  by  the 
supposition  a  lady,  but  still  an  Italian  one.  There  is  a  honeyed 
richness  about  the  texture  of  the  skin,  and  her  air  is  languid  from 
a  sense  of  pleasure.  Her  dress,  though  modest,  has  the  marks 
of  studied  coquetry  about  it ;  it  touches  the  very  limits  which  it 
dares  not  pass ;  and  her  eyes  which  are  bashful  and  downcast, 


ON  A  PORTRAIT  BY  VANDYKE.  133 

do  not  seem  to  droop  under  the  fear  of  observation,  but  to  retire 
from  the  gaze  of  kindled  admiration, 

"  As  if  they  thrill'd 


Frail  hearts,  yet  quenched  not !" 

One  might  say,  with  Othello,  of  the  hand  with  which  she  holrta 
the  globe  that  is  offered  to  her  acceptance 

"  This  hand  of  your's  requires 


A  sequester  from  liberty,  fasting  and  pray'r, 
Much  castigation,  exercise  devout ; 
For  here's  a  young  and  melting  devil  here, 
That  commonly  rebels." 

The  hands  of  Vandyke's  portrait  have  the  purity  and  coldness 
of  marble.  The  color  of  the  face  is  such  as  might  be  breathed 
upon  it  by  the  refreshing  breeze ;  that  of  the  Marchioness  of 
Guasto's  is  like  the  glow  it  might  imbibe  from  a  golden  sunset. 
The  expression  in  the  English  lady  springs,  from  her  duties  and 
her  affections ;  that  of  the  Italian  Countess  inclines  more  to  her 
ease  and  pleasures.  The  Marchioness  of  Guasto  was  one  of 
three  sisters,  to  whom,  it  is  said,  the  inhabitants  of  Pisa  proposed 
to  pay  divine  honors,  in  the  manner  that  beauty  was  worshipped 
by  the  fabulous  enthusiasts  of  old.  Her  husband  seems  to  have 
participated  in  the  common  infatuation,  from  the  fanciful  homage 
that  is  paid  to  her  in  this  allegorical  composition  ;  and  if  she  was 
at  all  intoxicated  by  the  incense  offered  to  her  vanity,  the  painter 
must  be  allowed  to  have  "  qualified  "  the  expression  of  it  "  very 
craftily." 

I  pass  on  to  another  female  face  and  figure,  that  of  the  Virgin, 
in  the  beautiful  picture  of  the  Presentation  in  the  Temple,  by 
Guido.  The  expression  here  is  ideal,  and  has  a  reference  to 
visionary  objects  and  feelings.  It  is  marked  by  an  abstraction 
from  outward  impressions,  a  downcast  Iook,  an  elevated  brow, 
an  absorption  of  purpose,  a  stillness  and  resignation,  that  become 
the  person  and  the  scene  in  which  she  is  engaged.  The  color  i? 
pale  or  gone ;  so  that  purified  from  every  grossness,  dead  to 
worldly  passions,  she  almost  seems  like  a  statue  kneeling.     W'th 


134  TABLE  TALK. 


knees  bent,  and  hands  uplifted,  her  motionless  figure  appears  sup- 
ported by  a  soul  within,  all  whose  thoughts,  from  the  low  ground 
of  humility,  tend  heavenward.  We  find  none  of  the  triumphant 
buoyancy  of  health  and  spirit  as  in  the  Titian's  Mistress,  nor  the 
luxurious  softness  of  the  portrait  of  the  Marchioness  of  Guasto, 
nor  the  flexible,  tremulous  sensibility,  nor  the  anxious  attention 
to  passing  circumstances,  nor  the- familiar  look  of  the  lady  by 
Vandyke ;  on  the  contrary,  there  is  a  complete  unity  and  con- 
centration of  expression,  the  whole  is  wrought  up  and  moulded 
into  one  intense  feeling,  but  that  feeling  fixed  on  objects  remote, 
refined,  and  etheriel  as  the  form  of  the  fair  supplicant.  A  still 
greater  contrast  to  this  internal,  or  as  it  were,  introverted  ex- 
pression, is  to  be  found  in  the  group  of  female  heads  by  the  same 
artist,  Guido,  in  his  picture  of  the  Flight  of  Paris  and  Helen. 
They  are  the  three  last  heads  on  the  left-hand  side  of  the  pic- 
ture. They  are  thrown  into  every  variety  of  attitude,  as  if  to 
take  the  heart  by  surprise  at  every  avenue.  A  tender  warmth 
is  suffused  over  their  faces ;  their  head-dresses  are  airy  and  fan- 
ciful, their  complexion  sparkling  and  glossy  ;  their  features  seem 
to  catch  pleasure  from  every  surrounding  object,  and  to  reflect  it 
back  again.  Vanity,  beauty,  gaiety  glance  from  their  conscious 
looks  and  wreathed  smiles,  like  the  changing  colors  from  the 
ring-dove's  neck.  To  sharpen  the  effect  and  point  the  moral, 
they  are  accompanied  by  a  little  negro-boy,  who  holds  up  the 
train  of  elegance,  fashion,  and  voluptuous  grace ! 

Guido  was  the  "  genteelest "  of  painters  ;  he  was  a  poetical 
Vandyke.  The  latter  could  give,  with  inimitable  and  perfect 
skill,  the  airs  and  graces  of  people  of  fashion  under  their  daily 
and  habitual  aspects,  or  as  he  might  see  them  in  a  looking-glass. 
The  former  saw  them  in  his  "  mind's  eye,"  and  could  transform 
them  into  supposed  characters  and  imaginary  situations.  Still 
the  elements  were  the  same.  Vandyke  gave  them  with  the  man- 
nerism of  habit  and  the  individual  details ;  Guido,  as  they  were 
rounded  into  grace  and  smoothness  by  the  breath  of  fancy,  and 
borne  along  by  the  tide  of  sentiment.  Guido  did  not  want  the 
ideal  faculty,  though  he  wanted  strength  and  variety.  There  is 
an  effeminacy  about  his  pictures,  for  he  gave  only  the  different 
modifications  of  beauty.     It  was  the  Goddess  that  inspired  him, 


ON  A  PORTRAIT  OF  VANDVKE.  18S 

the  Siren  that  seduced  him ;  -and  whether  as  saint  or  sinner,  was 
equally  welcome  to  him.  His  creations  are  as  frail  as  they  are 
fair.  They  all  turn  on  a  passion  for  beauty,  and  without  this 
support,  are  nothing.  He  could  paint  beauty  combined  with 
pleasure,  or  sweetness,  or  grief,  or  devotion  ;  but  unless  it  were 
the  ground-work  and  the  primary  condition  of  his  performance, 
he  became  insipid,  ridiculous,  and  extravagant.  There  is  one 
thing  to  be  said  in  his  favor ;  he  knew  his  own  powers  or  fol- 
lowed his  own  inclinations ;  and  the  delicacy  of  his  tact  in  gene- 
ral prevented  him  from  attempting  subjects  uncongenial  with  it. 
He  "  trod  the  primrose  path  of  dalliance,"  with  equal  prudence 
and  modesty.  That  he  is  a  little  monotonous  and  tame,  is  all 
that  can  be  said  against  him  ;  and  he  seldom  went  out  of  his 
way  to  expose  his  deficiencies  in  a  glaring  point  of  view.  He 
came  round  to  subjects  of  beauty  at  last,  or  gave  them  that  turn. 
A  story  is  told  of  his  having  painted  a  very  lovely  head  of  a 
girl,  and  being  asked  from  whom  ,he  had  taken  it,  he  replied, 
"  From  his  old  man !"  This  is  not  unlikely.  He  is  the  only 
great  painter  (except  Correggio)  who  appears  constantly  to  have 
subjected  what  he  saw  to  an  imaginary  standard.  His  Magda- 
lens  are  more  beautiful  than  sorrowful  ;  in  his  Madonnas  there 
is  more  of  sweetness  and  modesty  than  of  elevation.  He  makes 
but  little  difference  between  his  heroes  and  his  heroines ;  his 
angels  are  women,  and  his  women  angels !  If  it  be  said  that  he 
repeated  himself  too  often,  and  has  painted  too  many  Magda- 
lens  and  Madonnas,  I  can  only  say  in  answer,  "  Would  he  had 
painted  twice  as  many  !"  If  Guido  wanted  compass  and  variety 
in  his  art,  it  signifies  little,  since  what  he  wanted  is  abundantly 
supplied  by  others.  He  had  softness,  delicacy,  and  ideal  grace  in  a 
supreme  degree,  and  his  fame  rests  on  these  as  the  cloud  on  the 
rock.  It  is  to  the  highest  point  of  excellence  in  any  art  or  de- 
partment that  we  look  back  with  gratitude  and  admiration,  as  it 
is  the  highest  mountain  peak  that  we  catch  in  the  distance,  and 
lose  sight  of  only  when  it  turns  to  air. 

I  know  of  no  other  difference  between  Raphael  and  Guido, 
than  that  the  one  was  twice  the  man  the  other  was.  Raphael 
was  a  bolder  genius,  and  invented  according  to  nature :  Guido 
only  made  draughts  after  his   own   disposition  and   character 


136  .  TABLE  TALK. 


There  is  a  common  cant  of  criticism  which  makes  Titian  merely 
a  colorist.  What  he  really  wanted  was  invention  :  he  had  ex- 
pression in  the  highest  degree.  I  declare  I  have  seen  heads  of 
his  with  more  meaning  in  them  than  any  of  Raphael's.  But  he 
fell  short  of  Raphael  in  this,  that  (except  in  one  or  two  instances) 
he  could  not  heighten  and  adapt  the  expression  that  he  saw  to  dif- 
ferent and  more  striking  circumstances.  He  gave  more  of  what 
he  saw  than  any  other  painter  that  ever  lived,  and  in  the  imitative 
part  of  his  art  had  a  more  universal  genius  than  Raphael  had  in 
composition  and  invention.  Beyond  the  actual  and  habitual  look 
of  nature,  however,  "  the  demon  that  he  served  "  deserted  him, 
or  became  a  very  tame  one.  Vandyke  gave  more  of  the  general 
air  and  manners  of  fashionable  life  than  of  individual  character; 
and  the  subjects  that  he  treated  are  neither  remarkable  for  intel- 
lect nor  passion.  They  are- people  of  polished  manners  and  pla- 
cid constitutions  ;  and  many  of  the  very  best  of  them  are  "  stu- 
pidly good."  Titian's  portraits,  on  the  other  hand,  frequently 
present  a  much  more  formidable  than  inviting  appearance.  You 
would  hardly  trust  yourself  in  a  room  with  them.  You  do  not 
bestow  a  cold,  leisurely  approbation  on  them,  but  look  to  see  what 
they  may  be  thinking  of  you,  not  without  some  apprehension  for 
the  result.  They  have  not  the  clear  smooth  skins  or  the  even 
pulse  that  Vandyke's  seem  to  possess.  They  are,  for  the  most 
part,  fierce,  wary,  voluptuous,  subtle,  haughty.  Raphael  painted 
Italian  faces  as  well  as  Titian.  But  he  threw  into  them  a  cha- 
racter of  intellect  rather  than  of  temperament.  In  Titian  the 
irritability  takes  the  lead,  sharpens  and  gives  direction  to  the  un- 
derstanding. There  seems  to  be  a  personal  controversy  between 
the  spectator  and  the  individual  whose  portrait  he  contemplates, 
which  shall  be  master  of  the  other.  I  may  refer  to  two  portraits 
in  the  Louvre,  the  one  by  Raphael,  the  other  by  Titian  (Nos. 
1153  and  1210),  in  illustration  of  these  remarks.  I  do  not  know 
two  finer  or  more  characteristic  specimens  of  these  masters,  each 
in  its  way.  The  one  is  of  a  student  dressed  in  black,  absorbed 
in  thought,  intent  on  some  problem,  with  the  hands  crossed  and 
leaning  on  a  table  for  support,  as  it  were  to  give  freer  scope  to 
the  labor  of  the  brain,  and  though  the  eyes  are  directed  towards 
you,  it  is  with  evident  absence  of  mind.     Not  so  the  other  por- 


ON  A  PORTRAIT  BY  VANDYKE.  >37 

trait,  No.  1210.  All  its  faculties  are  collected  to  see  what  it  can 
make  of  you,  as  if  you  had  intruded  upon  it  with  some  hostile 
design,  it  takes  a  defensive  attitude,  and  shows  as  much  vigilance 
as  dignity.  It  draws  itself  up,  as  if  to  say,  "  Well,  what  do  you 
think  of  me  ?"  and  exercises  a  discretionary  power  over  you.  It 
has  "  an  eye  to  threaten  and  command,"  not  to  be  lost  in  idle 
thought,  or  in  ruminating  over  some  abstruse,  speculative  proposi- 
tion. It  is  this  intense  personal  character  which,  I  think,  gives 
the  superiority  to  Titian's  portraits  over  all  others,  and  stamps 
them  with  a  living  and  permanent  interest.  Of  other  pictures 
you  tire,  if  you  have  them  constantly  before  you  ;  of  his,  never. 
For  other  pictures  have  either  an  abstracted  look  and  you  dismiss 
them,  when  you  have  made  up  your  mind  on  the  subject  as  a 
matter  of  criticism ;  or  an  heroic  look,  and  you  cannot  be  always 
straining  your  enthusiasm ;  or  an  insipid  look,  and  you  sicken  of 
it.  But  whenever  you  turn  to  look  at  Titian's  portraits,  they 
appear  to  be  looking  at  you  ;  there  seems  to  be  some  question  pend- 
ing between  you,  as  though  an  intimate  friend  or  inveterate  foe 
were  in  the  room  with  you  ;  they  exert  a  kind  of  fascinating 
power  ;  and  there  is  that  exact  resemblance  of  individual  nature 
which  is  always  new  and  always  interesting,  because  you  cannot 
carry  away  a  mental  abstraction  of  it,  and  you  must  recur  to  the 
object  to  revive  it  in  its  full  force  and  integrity.  I  would  as  soon 
have  Raphael's  or  most  other  pictures  hanging  up  in  a  Collection, 
that  I  might  pay  an  occasional  visit  to  them  :  Titian's  are  the 
only  ones  that  I  should  wish  to  have  hanging  in  the  same  room 
with  me  for  company  ! 

Titian  in  his  portraits  appears  to  have  understood  the  principle 
of  historical  design  better  than  anybody.  Every  part  tells,  and 
has  a  bearing  on  the  whole.  There  is  no  one  who  has  such  sim- 
plicity and  repose — no  violence,  no  affectation,  no  attempt  at  fore 
ing  an  effect ;  insomuch  that  by  the  uninitiated  he  is  often  con. 
demned  as  unmeaning  and  insipid.  A  turn  of  the  eye,  a  com- 
pression of  the  lip  decides  the  point.  He  just  draws  the  face  out 
of  its  most  ordinary  state,  and  gives  it  the  direction  he  would 
have  it  take  ;  but  then  every  part  takes  the  same  direction,  and 
the  effect  of  this  united  impression  (which  is  absolutely  momen- 
tary and  all  but  habitual)  is  wonderful.     It  is  that  which  makes 


138  TABLE  TALK. 


his  portraits  the  most  natural  and  the  most  striking  in  tne  world. 
It  may  be  compared  to  the  effect  of  a  number  of  small  loadstones, 
that  by  acting  together  lift  the  greatest  weights.  Titian  seized 
upon  the  lines  of  character  in  the  "_"ost  original  and  connected 
point  of  view.  Thus  in  his  celebrated  portrait  of  Hippolito  de 
Medici,  there  is  a  keen,  sharpened  expression  that  strikes  you, 
like  a  blow  from  the  spear  that  he  holds  in  his  hand.  The  look 
goes  through  you  ;  yet  it  has  no  frown,  no  startling  gesticulation 
no  affected  penetration.  It  is  quiet,  simple,  but  it  almost  withers 
you.  The  whole  face  and  each  separate  feature  is  cast  in  the  same 
acute  or  wedge-like  form.  The  forehead  is  high  and  narrow,  the 
eye-brows  raised  and  coming  to  a  point  in  the  middle,  the  nose 
straight  and  peaked,  the  mouth  contracted  and  drawn  up  at  the 
corners,  the  chin  acute,  and  the  two  sides  of  the  face  slanting  to 
a  point.  The  number  of  acute  angles  which  the  lines  of  the  face 
form,  are,  in  fact,  a  net  entangling  the  attention  and  subduing  the 
will.  The  effect  is  felt  at  once,  though  it  asks  time  and  considera- 
tion to  understand  the  cause.  It  is  a  face  which  you  would  be- 
ware of  rousing  into  anger  or  hostility,  as  you  would  beware  of 
setting  in  motion  some  complicated  and  dangerous  machinery. 
The  possessor  of  it,  you  may  be  sure,  is  no  trifler.  Such,  indeed, 
was  the  character  of  the  man.  This  is  to  paint  true  portrait  and 
true  history.  So  if  our  artist  painted  a  mild  and  thoughtful 
expression,  all  the  lines  of  the  countenance  were  softened  and 
relaxed.  If  the  mouth  was  going  to  speak,  the  whole  face  was 
going  to  speak.  It  was  the  same  in  color.  The  gradations  are 
infinite,  and  yet  so  blended  as  to  be  imperceptible.  No  two 
tints  are  the  same,  though  they  produce  the  greatest  harmony 
and  simplicity  of  tone,  like  flesh  itself.  "  Tf,"  said  a  person, 
pointing  to  the  shaded  side  of  a  portrait  of  Titian,  "  you  could 
turn  this  round  to  the  light,  you  would  find  it  would  be  of  the 
same  color  as  the  other  side  !"  In  short,  there  is  manifest  in  his 
portraits  a  greater  tenaciousness  and  identity  of  impression  than 
in  those  of  any  other  painter.  Form,  color,  feeling,  character, 
seemed  to  adhere  to  his  eye,  and  to  become  part  of  himself;  and 
his  pictures,  on  this  account,  "  leave  stings  "  in  the  minds  of  the 
spectators  !  There  is,  I  grant,  the  same  personal  appeal,  the  same 
point-blank  look  in  some  of  Raphael's   portraits  (see  those  of  a 


ON  A  PORTRAIT  BY  VANDYKE.  139 

Princess  of  Arragon  and  of  Count  Castiglione,  Nos.  1150  and 
1151  as  in  Titian  :  but  they  want  the  texture  of  the  skin  and  the 
minute  individual  details  to  stamp  them  with  the  same  reality. 
And  again,  as  to  the  uniformity  of  outline  in  the  features,  this 
principle  has  been  acted  upon  and  carried  to  excess  by  Kneller 
and  other  artists.  The  eyes,  the  eye-brows,  the  nose,  the  mouth, 
the  chin,  are  rounded  off  as  if  they  were  turned  in  a  lathe,  or  as 
a  peruke-maker  arranges  the  curls  of  a  wig.  In  them  it  is  vile 
and  mechanical,  without  any  reference  to  truth  of  character  or 
nature  ;  and  instead  of  being  pregnant  with  meaning  and  origi- 
nality of  expression,  produces  only  insipidity  and  monotony. 

Perhaps  what  is  offered  above  as  a  key  to  the  peculiar  expres- 
sion of  Titian's  heads  may  also  serve  to  explain  the  difference 
between  painting  or  copying  a  portrait.  As  the  perfection  of  his 
faces  consists  in  the  entire  unity  and  coincidence  of  all  the  parts, 
so  the  difficulty  of  ordinary  portrait-painting  is  to  bring  them  to 
bear  at  all,  or  to  piece  one  feature,  or  one  day's  labor,  on  to  ano- 
ther. In  copying,  this  difficulty  does  not  occur  at  all.  The  hu- 
man face  is  not  one  thing,  as  the  vulgar  suppose,  nor  does  it 
remain  always  the  same.  It  has  infinite  varieties  which  the  artist 
is  obliged  to  notice  and  to  reconcile,  or  he  will  make  strange  work. 
Not  only  the  light  and  shade  upon  it  do  not  continue  for  two 
minutes  the  same  :  the  position  of  the  head  constantly  varies  (or 
if  you  are  strict  with  a  sitter,  he  grows  sullen  and  stupid),  each 
feature  is  in  motion  every  moment,  even  while  the  artist  is  work- 
ing at  it,  and  in  the  course  of  a  day  the  whole  expression  of  the 
countenance  undergoes  a  change,  so  that  the  expression  which 
you  gave  to  the  forehead  or  eyes  yesterday  is  totally  incompatible 
with  that  which  you  have  to  give  to  the  mouth  to-day.  You  can 
only  bring  it  back  again  to  the  same  point  or  give  it  a  consistent 
construction  by  an  effort  of  imagination,  or  a  strong  feeling  of 
character  ;  and  you  must  connect  the  features  together  less  by 
the  eye  than  by  the  mind.  The  mere  setnng  down  what  you 
see  in  this  medley  of  successive,  teasing,  contradictory  impres- 
sions, would  never  do  ;  either  you  must  continually  efface  what 
you  have  done  the  instant  before,  or  if  you  retain  it,  you  will 
produce  a  piece  of  patchwork,  worse  than  any  caricature.  There 
must  be  a  comprehension  of  the  whole,  and  in  truth  a  moral  sense 


140  TABLE   TALK. 


(as  well  as  a  literal  one)   to  unravel  the  confusion,  and  guide 
you  through   the    labyrinth  of  shifting    muscles    and    features. 
You  must  feel  what  this  means,  and  dive  into  the  hidden  soul, 
in  order  to  know  whether  that  is  as  it  ought  to  be  ;  for  you  cannot 
be  sure  that  it  remains   as  it  was.     Portrait-painting  is,  then, 
painting  from  recollection  and   from  a  conception  of  character, 
with  the  object  before  us  to  assist  the  memory  and  understanding. 
In  copying,  on  the  contrary,  one  part  does  not  run  away  and  leave 
you  in  the  lurch,  while  you  are  intent  upon  another.     You  have 
only  to  attend  to  what  is  before  you,  and  finish  it  carefully  a  bit 
al  a  time,  and  you  are  sure  that  the  whole  will  come  right.    One 
might  parcel  it  out  into  squares,  as  in  engraving,  and  copy  one  at 
a  time,  without  seeing  or  thinking  of  the  rest.     I  do  not  say  that 
a   conception  of  the  whole,  and  a  feeling  of  the  art  will  not 
abridge  the  labor  of  copying,   or  produce  a  truer  likeness ;  but 
it  is  the  changeableness  or  identity  of  the  object  that  chiefly  con- 
stitutes  the  difficulty  or  facility  of  imitating  it,  and,  in  the  latter 
case,  reduces  it  nearly  to  a  mechanical  operation.     It  is  the  same 
in  the  imitation  of  still-life,  where  real  objects  have  not  a  princi- 
ple of  motion  in  them.     It  is  as  easy  to  produce  a  facsimile  of  a 
table  or  a  chair  as  to  copy  a  picture,  because  these  things  do  not 
stir  from   their  places  any  more  than  the  features  of  a  portrait 
stir  from  theirs.     You  may  therefore  bestow  any  given  degree  of 
minute  and  continued  attention  on  finishing  any  given  part  with- 
out  being  afraid  that  when  finished  it  will  not  correspond  with  the 
rest.     Nay,  it  requires  more  talent  to  copy  a  fine  portrait  than  to 
paint  an  original  picture  of  a  table  or  a  chair,  for  the  picture  has 
a  soul  in  it,  and  the  table  has  not.     It  has  been  made  an  objection 
(and  I  think  a  just  one)  against  the  extreme  high-finishing  of  the 
drapery  and   back-grounds  in  portraits  (to  which  some  schools, 
particularly  the  French,  are  addicted),  that  it  gives  an  unfinished 
look  to  the  face,  the  most  important  part  of  the  picture.     A  lady 
or  a  gentleman  cannot  sit  quite  so  long  or  so  still  as  a  lay-figure, 
and  if  you  finish  up  each  part  according  to  the  length  of  time  it 
will  remain  in  one  position,  the  face  will  seem  to  have  been  painted 
for  the  sake  of  the  drapery,  not  the  drapery  to  set  off*  the  face. 
There  is  an  obvious  limit  to  everything,  if  we  attend  to  com- 
mon sense  and  feeling.     If  a  carpet  or  a  curtain  will  admit  of 


ON  A  PORTRAIT  BY  VANDYKE.  Ul 

being  finished  more  than  the  living  face,  we  finish  them  less 
because  they  excite  less  interest,  and  we  are  less  willing  to 
throw  away  our  time  and  pains  upon  them.  This  is  the  una- 
voidable result  in  a  natural  and  well  regulated  style  of  art ; 
but  what  is  to  be  said  of  a  school  where  no  interest  is  felt  in 
anything,  where  nothing  is  known  of  any  object  but  that  it  is 
there,  and  where  superficial  and  petty  details  which  the  eye  can 
explore,  and  the  hand  execute,  with  persevering  and  systematic 
indifference,  constitute  the  soul  of  art  ? 

The  expression  is  the  great  difficulty  in  history  or  portrait- 
painting,  and  yet  it  is  the  great  clue  to  both.  It  renders  forms 
doubly  impressive  from  the  interest  and  signification  attached  to 
them,  and  at  the  same  time  renders  the  imitation  of  them  critically 
nice,  by  making  any  departure  from  the  line  of  truth  doubly 
sensible.  Mr.  Coleridge  used  to  say,  that  what  gave  the  roman- 
tic and  mysterious  interest  to  Salvator's  landscapes  was  their 
containing  some  implicit  analogy  to  human  or  other  living  forms. 
His  rocks  had  a  latent  resemblance  to  the  outline  of  a  human 
face ;  his  trees  had  the  distorted  jagged  shape  of  a  satyr's  horns 
and  grotesque  features.  I  do  not  think  this  is  the  case ;  but  it 
may  serve  to  supply  us  with  an  illustration  of  the  present  ques- 
tion. Suppose  a  given  outline  to  represent  a  human  face,  but  to 
be  so  disguised  by  circumstances  and  little  interruptions  as  to  be 
mistaken  for  a  projecting  fragment  of  a  rock  in  a  natural  scenery. 
As  long  as  we  conceive  of  this  outline  merely  as  a  representation 
of  a  rock  or  other  inanimate  substance,  any  copy  of  it,  however 
rude,  will  seem  the  same  and  as  good  as  the  original.  Now  let 
the  disguise  be  removed  and  the  general  resemblance  to  a  human 
face  pointed  out,  and  what  before  seemed  perfect,  will  be  found 
to  be  deficient  in  the  most  essential  features.  Let  it  be  further 
understood  to  be  a  profile  of  a  particular  face  thai  we  know,  ana 
all  likeness  will  vanish  from  the  want  of  the  individual  expression, 
which  can  only  be  given  by  being  felt.  That  is,  the  imitation  of 
external  and  visible  form  is  only  correct  or  nearly  perfect,  when 
the  information  of  the  eye  and  the  direction  of  the  hand  are  aided 
and  confirmed  by  the  previous  knowledge  and  actual  feeling  of 
character  in  the  object  represented.  The  more  there  is  of  char- 
acter and  feeling  in  any  object,  and  the  greater  sympathy  there  is 


142  TABLE  TALK. 


with  it  in  the  mind  of  the  artist,  the  closer  will  be  the  affinity  be- 
tween the  imitation  and  the  thing  imitated ;  as  the  more  there  is 
of  character  and  expression  in  the  object  without  a  proportionable 
sympathy  with  it  in  the  imitator,  the  more  obvious  will  this 
defect  and  the  imperfection  of  the  copy  become.  That  is,  ex- 
pression is  the  great  test  and  measure  of  a  genius  for  painting  and 
the  fine  arts.  The  mere  imitation  of  still-life,  however  perfect, 
can  never  furnish  proofs  of  the  highest  skill  or  talent ;  for  there 
is  an  inner  sense,  a  deep  intuition  into  nature  that  is  never  un- 
folded by  merely  mechanical  objects,  and  which,  if  it  were  called 
out  by  a  new  soul  being  suddenly  infused  into  an  inanimate 
substance,  would  make  the  former  unconscious  representation 
appear  crude  and  vapid.  The  eye  is  sharpened  and  the  hand 
made  more  delicate  in  its  tact, 

"  While  by  the  power 
Of  harmony,  and  the  deep  power  of  joy, 
We  see  into  the  life  of  things." 

We  could  not  only  see  but  feel  expression,  by  the  help  of  the 
finest  of  all  our  senses,  the  sense  of  pleasure  and  pain.  He  then 
is  the  greatest  painter  who  can  put  the  greatest  quantity  of  ex- 
pression into  his  works,  for  this  is  the  nicest  and  most  subtle  ob- 
ject of  imitation  ;  it  is  that  in  which  any  defect  is  soonest  visible, 
which  must  be  able  to  stand  the  severest  scrutiny,  and  where  the 
power  of  avoiding  errors,  extravagance,  or  tameness,  can  only  be 
supplied  by  the  fund  of  moral  feeling,  the  strength  or  delicacy  of 
the  artist's  sympathy  with  the  ideal  object  of  his  imitation.  To 
see  or  imitate  any  given  sensible  object  is  one  thing,  the  effect 
of  attention  and  practice ;  but  to  give  expression  to  a  face  is  to 
collect  its  meaning  from  a  thousand  other  sources,  is  to  bring  into 
play  the  observation  and  feeling  of  one's  whole  life,  or  an  infinity 
of  knowledge  bearing  upon  a  single  object  in  different  degrees 
and  manners,  and  implying  a  loftiness  and  refinement  of  charac 
ter  proportioned  to  the  loftiness  and  refinement  of  expression  de- 
lineated. Expression  is  of  all  things  the  least  to  be  mistaken,  and 
the  most  evanescent  in  its  manifestations.  Pope's  lines  on  the 
character  of  women  may  be  addressed  to  the  painter  who  under- 
takes to  embody  it : 


ON  A  PORTRAIT  BY  VANDYKE.  143 

'  Come  then,  the  colors  and  the  ground  prepare, 
Dip  in  the  rainbow,  trick  it  off  in  air ; 
Choose  a  firm  cloud,  before  it  falls,  and  in  it 
Catch,  ere  it  change,  the  Cynthia  of  the  minute." 

It  is  a  maxim  among  painters  that  no  one  can  paint  more  than 
nis  own  character,  or  more  than  he  himself  understands  or  can 
enter  into.  Nay,  even  in  copying  a  head,  we  have  some  difficulty 
in  making  the  features  unlike  our  own.  A  person  with  a  low 
forehead  or  a  short  chin  puts  a  constraint  on  himself  in  painting 
a  high  forehead  or  a  long  chin.  So  much  has  sympathy  to  do 
with  what  is  supposed  to  be  a  mere  act  of  servile  imitation  ! — 
To  pursue  this  argument  one  step  further.  People  sometimes 
wonder  what  difficulty  there  can  be  in  painting,  and  ask  what 
you  have  to  do  but  to  set  down  what  you  see  ?  This  is  true,  but 
the  difficulty  is  to  see  what  is  before  you.  This  is  at  least  as  dif- 
ficult as  to  learn  any  trade  or  language.  We  imagine  that  we 
see  the  whole  of  nature,  because  we  are  aware  of  no  more  than 
we  see  of  it.  We  also  suppose  that  any  given  object,  a  head,  a 
hand,  is  one  thing,  because  we  see  it  at  once,  and  call  it  by  one 
name.  But  how  little  we  see  or  know,  even  of  the  most  familiar 
face,  beyond  a  vague  abstraction,  will  be  evident  to  every  one 
who  tries  to  recollect  distinctly  all  its  component  parts,  or  to 
draw  the  most  rude  outline  of  it  for  the  first  time  ;  or  who  con- 
siders the  variety  of  surface,  the  numberless  lights  and  shades, 
the  tints  of  the  skin,  every  particle  and  pore  of  which  varies,  the 
forms  and  markings  of  the  features,  the  combined  expression,  and 
all  these  caught  (as  far  as  common  use  is  concerned)  by  a  ran- 
dom glance,  and  communicated  by  a  passing  word.  A  student, 
when  he  first  copies  a  head,  soon  comes  to  a  stand,  or  is  at  a  loss 
to  proceed  from  seeing  nothing  more  in  the  face  than  there  is 
in  his  copy.  After  a  year  or  two's  practice  he  never  knows 
when  to  have  done,  and  the  longer  he  has  been  occupied  in  copy- 
ing a  face  or  any  particular  feature,  sees  more  and  more  in  it, 
that  he  has  left  undone  and  can  never  hope  to  do.  There  have 
been  only  four  or  five  painters  who  could  ever  produce  a  copy  of 
the  human  countenance  really  fit  to  be  seen  ;  and  even  of  these 
few  none  was  ever  perfect,  except  in  giving  some  single  quality 
or  partial  aspect  of  nature  which  happened  to  fall  in  with  his  own 


H4  TABLE  TALK. 


particular  studies  and  the  bias  of  his  genius,  as  Raphael  the 
drawing,  Rembrandt  the  light  and  shade,  Vandyke  ease  and  deli, 
cacy  of  appearance,  &c.  Titian  gave  more  than  any  one  else; 
and  yet  he  had  his  defects.  After  this,  shall  we  say  that  any 
the  commonest  and  most  uninstructed  spectator  sees  the  whole 
of  nature  at  a  single  glance,  and  would  be  able  to  stamp  a  pertect 
representation  of  it  on  the  canvas,  if  he  could  embody  the  image 
in  his  mind's  eye  ? 

I  have  in  this  Essay  mentioned  one  or  two  of  the  portraits  in 
the  Louvre  that  I  like  best.  The  two  landscapes  which  I  should 
most  covet,  are  the  one  with  a  Rainbow  by  Rubens,  and  the  Adam 
and  Eve  in  Paradise  by  Poussin.  In  the  first,  shepherds  are  re- 
posing with  their  flocks  under  the  shelter  of  a  breezy  grove,  the 
distances  are  of  air,  and  the  whole  landscape  seems  just  washed 
with  the  shower  that  has  passed  off.  The  Adam  and  Eve  of 
Poussin  is  the  full  growth  and  luxuriant  expansion  of  the  princi- 
ple of  vegetation.  It  is  the  first  lovely  dawn  of  creation,  when 
nature  played  her  virgin  fancies  wild ;  when  all  was  sweetness 
and  freshness,  and  the  heavens  dropped  fatness.  It  is  the  very 
ideal  of  landscape-painting,  and  of  the  scene  it  is  intended  to  re- 
present. It  throws  us  back  to  the  first  ages  of  the  world,  and  to 
the  only  period  of  perfect  human  bliss,  which  is,  however,  on  the 
point  of  being  soon  disturbed.*     I  should  be  contented  with  these 

*  I  may  be  allowed  to  mention  here  (not  for  the  sake  of  invidious  compa- 
rison, but  to  explain  my  meaning),  Mr.  Martin's  picture  of  Adam  and  Eve 
asleep  in  Paradise.  It  has  this  capital  defect,  that  there  is  no  repose  in  it. 
You  see  two  insignificant  naked  figures,  and  a  preposterous  architectural 
landscape,  like  a  range  of  buildings  over-Jooking  them.  They  might  as 
well  have  been  represented  on  the  top  of  the  pinnacle  of  the  Temple,  with 
the  world  and  all  the  glories  thereof  spread  out  before  them.  -They  ought 
to  have  been  painted  imparadised  in  one  another's  arms,  shut  up  in  mea- 
sureless content,  with  Eden's  choicest  bowers  closing  round  them,  and  Na- 
ture stooping  to  clothe  them  with  vernal  flowers.  Nothing  could  be  too 
retired,  too  voluptuous,  too  sacred  from  "  day's  garish  eye;"  on  the  contrary, 
you  have  a  gaudy  panoramic  view,  a  glittering  barren  waste,  a  triple  row 
of  clouds,  of  rocks,  and  mountains,  piled  one  upon  the  other,  as  if  the  ima- 
gination already  bent  its  idle  gaze  over  that  wide  world  which  was  so  soon 
to  be  our  place  of  exile,  and  the  aching,  restless  spirit  of  the  artist  was  oc- 
cupied in  building  a  stately  prison  for  our  first  parents,  instead  of  decking 
their  bridal  bed,  and  wrapping  them  in  a  short-lived  dream  of  bliss. 


ON  A  PORTRAIT  BY  VANDYKE.  145 

four  or  five  pictures,  the  Lady  by  Vandyke,  the  Titian,  the  Pre- 
sentation  in  the  Temple,  the  Rubens,  and  the  Poussin,  or  even 
with  faithful  copies  of  them,  added  to  the  two  which  I  have  of  a 
young  Neapolitan  Nobleman  and  of  the  Hippolito  de  Medici ;  and 
which,  when  I  look  at  them,  recal  other  times  and  the  feelings 
with  which  they  were  done.  It  is  now  twenty  years  since  I  made 
those  copies,  and  I  hope  to  keep  them  while  I  live.  It  seems  to 
me  no  longer  ago  than  yesterday.  Should  the  next  twenty  years 
pass  as  swiftly,  forty  years  will  have  glided  by  me  like  a  dream. 
By  this  kind  of  speculation  I  can  look  down  as  from  a  slippery 
height  on  the  beginning  and  the  end  of  life  beneath  my  feet,  and 
the  thought  makes  me  dizzy  ! 

My  taste  in  pictures  is,  I  believe,  very  different  from  that  of 
rich  and  princely  collectors.  I  would  not  give  two-pence  for  the 
whole  Gallery  at  Fonthill.  I  should  like  to  have  a  few  pictures 
hung  round  the  room,  that  speak  to  me  with  well-known  looks, 
that  touch  some  string  of  memory — not  a  number  of  varnished, 
smooth,  glittering  gewgaws.  The  taste  of  the  Great  in  pictures 
is  singular,  but  not  unaccountable.  The  King  is  said  to  prefer 
the  Dutch  to  the  Italian  school  of  painting  ;  and  if  you  hint  your 
surprise  at  this,  you  are  looked  upon  as  a  very  Gothic  and  outre 
sort  of  person.  You  are  told,  however,  by  way  of  consolation, — 
"  To  be  sure,  there  is  Lord  Carlisle  likes  an  Italian  picture — Mr. 
Hoi  well  Carr  likes  an  Italian  picture — the  Marquis  of  Stafford  is 
fond  of  an  Italian  picture — Sir  George  Beaumont  likes  an  Italian 
picture  !"  These,  notwithstanding,  are  regarded  as  quaint  and 
daring  exceptions  to  the  established  rule ;  and  their  preference 
is  a  species  of  leze  majeste  in  the  Fine  Arts,  as  great  an  eccen- 
tricity and  want  of  fashionable  etiquette,  as  if  any  gentleman  or 
nobleman  still  preferred  old  claret  to  new,  when  the  King  is 
known  to  have  changed  his  mind  on  this  subject ;  or  was  guilty 
of  dipping  his  forefinger  and  thumb  in  the  middle  of  a  snuff-box, 
instead  of  gradually  approximating  the  contents  to  the  edge  of  the 
box,  according  to  the  most  approved  models.  One  would  imagine 
that  the  great  and  exalted  in  station  would  like  lofty  subjects  in 
works  of  art,  whereas  they  seem  to  have  an  almost  exclusive  pre- 
dilection for  the  mean  and  mechanical.  One  would  think  those 
whose  word  was  law,  would  be  pleased  with  the  great  and  strik- 

SECONE    SERIES. PART    I.  11 


146  TABLE  TALK 


ing  effects  of  the  pencil  ;*  on  the  contrary,  they  admire  nothing 
but  the  little  and  elaborate.  They  have  a  fondness  for  cabinet 
and  furniture  pictures,  and  a  proportionable  antipathy  to  works  of 
genius.  Even  art  with  them  must  bo  servile,  to  be  tolerated. 
Perhaps  the  seeming  contradiction  may  be  explained  thus.  Such 
persons  are  raised  so  high  above  the  rest  of  the  species,  that  the 
more  violent  and  agitating  pursuits  of  mankind  appear  to  them 
like  the  turmoil  of  ants  on  a  mole-hill.  Nothing  interests  them 
but  their  own  pride  and  self-importance.  Our  passions  are  to 
them  an  impertinence ;  an  expression  of  high  sentiment  they 
rather  shrink  from  as  a  ludicrous  and  upstart  assumption  of 
equality.  They  therefore  like  what  glitters  to  the  eye,  what  is 
smooth  to  the  touch  ;  but  they  shun,  by  an  instinct  of  sovereign 
taste,  whatever  has  a  soul  in  it,  or  implies  a  reciprocity  of  feeling. 
The  Gods  of  the  earth  can  have  no  interest  in  anything  human  ; 
they  are  cut  off  from  all  sympathy  with  the  "  bosoms  and  busi- 
nesses of  men."  Instead  of  requiring  to  be  wound  up  beyond 
their  habitual  feeling  of  stately  dignity,  they  wish  to  have  the 
springs  of  over-strained  pretension  let  down,  to  be  relaxed  with 
"  trifles  light  as  air,"  to  be  amused  with  the  familiar  and  frivo- 
lous, and  to  have  the  world  appear  a  scene  of  still-life,  except  as 
they  disturb  it !  The  little  in  thought  and  internal  sentiment  is  a 
natural  relief  and  set  off  to  the  oppressive  sense  of  external  mag- 
nificence. Hence  kings  babble  and  repeat  they  know  not  what. 
A  childish  dotage  often  accompanies  the  consciousness  of  absolute 
power.  Repose  is  somewhere  necessary,  and  the  soul  sleeps 
while  the  senses  gloat  around  !  Besides  the  mechanical  and 
high-finished  style  of  art  may  be  considered  as  something  done  to 
order.  It  is  a  task  to  be  executed  more  or  less  perfectly,  accord, 
ing  to  the  price  given,  and  the  industry  of  the  artist.  We  stand 
by,  as  it  were,  to  see  the  work  done,  insist  upon  a  greater  de- 

*  The  Duke  of  Wellington,  it  is  said,  cannot  enter  into  the  merits  of  Ra- 
phael ;  but  he  admires  "  the  spirit  and  fire"  of  Tintoret.  I  do  not  wonder 
at  this  bias.  A  sentiment  probably  never  dawned  upon  his  Grace's  mind  ; 
but  he  may  be  supposed  to  relish  the  dashing  execution  and  hit  or  mist 
manner  of  the  Venetian  artist.  Oh,  Raphael !  well  is  it  that  it  was  on« 
who  did  not  understand  thee,  that  blundered  upon  the  destruction  of  hu- 
manity! 


ON  A  PORTRAIT  BY  VANDYKE.  147 


gree  of  neatness  and  accuracy,  and  exercise  a  sort  of  petty,  jeal- 
ous jurisdiction  over  each  particular.  We  are  judges  of  the 
minuteness  of  the  details,  and  though  ever  so  nicely  executed,  as 
they  give  us  no  ideas  beyond  what  we  had  before,  we  do  not  feel 
humbled  in  the  comparison.  The  artizan  scarcely  rises  into  the 
artist ;  and  the  name  of  genius  is  degraded  rather  than  exalted  in 
his  person.  The  performance  is  so  far  ours  that  we  have  paid  for 
it,  and  the  highest  price  is  all  that  is  necessary  to  produce  the 
highest  finishing.  But  it  is  not  so  in  works  of  genius  and  imagi- 
nation. Their  price  is  above  rubies.  The  inspiration  of  the 
Muse  comes  not  with  the  Jial  of  a  monarch,  with  the  donation  of 
a  patron ;  and,  therefore,  the  Great  turn  with  disgust  or  eileim- 
nate  indifference  from  the  mighty  masters  of  the  Italian  school, 
because  such  works  baffle  and  confound  their  self-love,  and  make 
them  feel  that  there  is  something  in  the  mind  of  man  which  they 
3an  neither  give  nor  take  away. 

"Quam  nihil  ad  tuum,  Papiniane,  ingenium !" 
24 


148  TABLE  TALK. 


ESSAY  XII. 
On  Dreams. 


Dr.  Spurzheim,  in  treating  of  the  Physiology  of  the  Brain,  has 

the  following  curious  passage  : 

"  The  state  of  somnambulism  equally  proves  the  plurality  of 
the  organs.  This  is  a  state  of  incomplete  sleep,  wherein  several 
organs  are  watching.  It  is  known  that  the  brain  acts  upon  the 
external  world  by  means  of  voluntary  motion,  of  the  voice,  and 
of  the  five  external  senses.  Now,  if  in  sleeping  some  organs  be 
active,  dreams  take  place  ;  if  the  action  of  the  brain  be  propagat- 
ed to  the  muscles,  there  follow  motions  ;  if  the  action  of  the  brain 
be  propagated  to  the  vocal  organs,  the  sleeping  person  speaks. 
Indeed,  it  is  known  that  sleeping  persons  dream  and  speak ; 
others  dream,  speak,  hear,  and  answer ;  others  still  dream, 
rise,  do  various  things  and  walk.  This  latter  state  is  called 
somnambulism,  that  is,  the  state  of  walking  during  sleep.  Now, 
as  the  ear  can  near,  so  tne  eyes  may  see,  while  the  other  organs 
sleep  ;  -and  there  are  facts  quite  positive  which  prove  that  seve- 
ral persons  in  the  state  of  somnambulism  have  seen,  but  always 
with  open  eyes.  There  are  also  convulsive  fits,  in  which  the  pa- 
tients see  without  hearing,  and  vice  versa.  Some  somnambulists 
do  things  of  which  they  are  not  capable  in  a  state  of  watching  ; 
and  dreaming  persons  reason  sometimes  better  than  they  do  when 
awake.  This  phenomenon  is  not  astonishing,' '  &c. — Physiog- 
nomical System  of  Drs.  Gall  and  Spurzheim,  p.  217. 

There  is  here  a  very  singular  mixing  up  of  the  flattest  truisms 
with  the  most  gratuitous  assumptions  ;  so  that  the  one  being  told 
with  great  gravity,  and  the  other  delivered  with  the  most  familiar 
air,  one  is  puzzled  in  a  cursory  perusal  to  distinguish  which  is 
which.  This  is  an  art  of  stultifying  the  reader,  like  that  of  the 
juggler,  who  shows  you  some  plain  matter-of-fact  experiment  just 


ON  DREAMS.  149 


as  he  is  going  to  play  off  his  capital  trick.  The  mind  is,  by  this 
alternation  of  style,  thrown  off  its  guard  ;  and  between  wondering 
first  at  the  absurdity,  and  then  at  the  superficiality  of  the  work, 
becomes  almost  a  convert  to  it.  A  thing  exceedingly  questionable 
is  stated  so  roundly,  you  think  there  must  be  something  in  it : 
the  plainest  proposition  is  put  in  so  doubtful  and  cautious  a  man- 
ner, you  conceive  the  writer  must  see  a  great  deal  farther  into 
the  subject  than  you  do.  You  mistrust  your  ears  and  eyes,  and 
are  in  a  fair  way  to  resign  the  use  of  your  understanding.  It  is 
a  fine  style  of  mystifying.  Again,  it  is  the  practice  with  the 
German  school,  and  in  particular  with  Dr.  Spurzheim,  to  run 
counter  with  common  sense  and  the  best  authenticated  opinions. 
They  must  always  be  more  knowing  than  everybody  else,  and 
treat  the  wisdom  of  the  ancients,  and  the  wisdom  of  the  moderns, 
much  in  the  same  supercilious  way.  It  has  been  taken  for 
granted  generally  that  people  see  with  their  eyes  ;  and  therefore 
it  is  stated  in  the  above  passage  as  a  discovery  of  the  author, 
"  imparted  in  dreadful  secresy,"  that  sleep-walkers  always  see 
with  their  eyes  open.  The  meaning  of  which  is,  that  we  are  not 
to  give  too  implicit  or  unqualified  an  assent  to  the  principle,  at 
which  modern  philosophers  have  arrived  with  some  pains  and 
difficulty,  that  we  acquire  our  ideas  of  external  objects  through 
the  senses.  The  transcendental  sophists  wish  to  back  out  of  that, 
as  too  conclusive  and  well-defined  a  position.  They  would  be 
glad  to  throw  the  whole  of  what  has  been  done  on  this  question 
into  confusion  again,  in  order  to  begin  de  novo,  like  children  who 
construct  houses  with  cards,  and  when  the  pack  is  built  up,  shuf- 
fle them  all  together  on  the  table  again.  These  intellectual  Sysi- 
phuses  are  always  rolling  the  stone  of  knowledge  up  a  hill,  for 
the  perverse  pleasure  of  rolling  it  down  again.  Having  gone  as 
far  as  they  can  in  the  direction  of  reason  and  good  sense,  rather  than 
seem  passive  or  the  slaves  of  any  opinion,  they  turn  back  with  a 
wonderful  look  of  sagacity  to  all  sorts  of  exploded  prejudices  and 
absurdity.  It  is  a  pity  that  we  cannot  let  well  done  alone,  and 
that  after  laboring  for  centuries  to  remove  ignorance,  we  set  our 
faces  with  the  most  wilful  officiousness  against  the  stability  of 
knowledge.  The  Physiognomical  System  of  Drs.  Gall  and  Spurz- 
heim is  full  of  this  disgusting  cant.     We  are  still  only  to  believe 


150  TABLE  TALK. 


in  all  unbelief — in  what  they  tell  us.  The  less  credulous  we  are 
of  other  things,  the  more  faith  we  shall  have  in  reserve  for  them : 
by  exhausting  our  stock  of  scepticism  and  caution  on  such  obvi- 
ous matters  of  fact  as  that  people  always  see  with  their  eyes  open, 
we  shall  be  prepared  to  swallow  their  crude  and  extravagant  the- 
ories whole;  and  not  be  astonished  at  "  the  phenomenon,  that  per- 
sons sometimes  reason  better  asleep  than  awake  !" 

I  have  alluded  to  this  passage  because  I  myself  am  (or  used 
some  time  ago  to  be)  a  sleep-walker  ;  and  know  how  the  thing  is. 
In  this  sort  of  disturbed,  unsound  sleep,  the  eyes  are  not  closed, 
and  are  attracted  by  the  light.  I  used  to  get  up  and  go  towards 
the  window,  and  make  violent  efforts  to  throw  it  open.  The  air 
in  some  measure  revived  me,  or  I  might  have  tried  to  fling  myself 
out.  I  saw  objects  indistinctly,  the  houses,  for  instance,  facing 
me  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  street ;  but  still  it  was  some  time 
before  I  could  recognize  them  or  recollect  where  I  was :  that  is, 
I  was  still  asleep,  and  the  dimness  of  my  senses  (as  far  as  it  pre- 
vailed) was  occasioned  by  the  greater  numbness  of  my  memory. 
This  phenomenon  is  not  astonishing,  unless  we  choose  in  all  such 
cases  to  put  the  cart  before  the  horse.  For  in  fact,  it  is  the  mind 
that  sleeps,  and  the  senses  (so  to  speak)  only  follow  the  example. 
The  mind  dozes,  and  the  eyelids  close  in  consequence  :  we  do  not 
go  to  sleep,  because  we  shut  our  eyes.  I  can,  however,  speak  to 
the  fact  of  the  eyes  being  open,  when  their  sense  is  shut ;  or 
rather,  when  we  are  unable  to  draw  just  inferences  from  it.  It 
is  generally  in  the  night-time  indeed,  or  in  a  strange  place,  that 
the  circumstance  happens  ;  but  as  soon  as  the  light  dawns  upon 
the  recollection,  the  obscurity  and  perplexity  of  the  senses  clear 
up.  The  external  impression  is  made  before,  much  in  the  same 
manner  as  it  is  after  we  are  awake  ;  but  it  does  not  lead  to  the 
usual  train  of  associations  connected  with  that  impression  ;  e.  g. 
the  name  of  the  street  or  town  where  we  are,  who  lives  at  the 
opposite  house,  how  we  came  to  sleep  in  the  room  where  we  are, 
&c. ;  all  which  are  ideas  belonging  to  our  waking  experience, 
and  are  at  this  time  cut  off  or  greatly  disturbed  by  sleep.  It  is 
just  the  same  an  when  persons  recover  from  a  swoon,  and  fix  their 
©ye.3  unconsciously  on  those  about  them,  for  a  considerable  tme 
before  they  recollect  where  they  are.     Would  any  one  but  a 


ON  DREAMS.  151 


German  physiologist  think  it  necessary  to  assure  us  that  at  this 
time  they  see,  but  with  their  eyes  open,  or  pretend  that  though 
they  have  lost  all  memory  or  understanding  during  their  fainting 
fit,  their  minds  then  act  more  vigorously  and  freely  than  ever, 
because  they  are  not  distracted  by  outward  impressions  ?  The 
appeal  is  made  to  the  outward  sense,  in  the  instances  we  have 
seen  ;  but  the  mind  is  deaf  to  it,  because  its  functions  are  for  the 
time  gone.  It  is  ridiculous  to  pretend  with  this  author,  that  in 
sleep  some  of  the  organs  of  the  mind  rest,  while  others  are  active  ; 
it  might  as  well  be  pretended  that  in  sleep  one  eye  watches  while 
the  other  is  shut.  The  stupor  is  general :  the  faculty  of  thought 
itself  is  impaired  ;  and  whatever  ideas  we  have,  instead  of  being 
confined  to  any  particular  faculty  or  the  impressions  of  any  one 
sense,  and  invigorated  thereby,  float  at  random  from  object  to 
object,  from  one  class  of  impressions  to  another,  without  coherence 
or  control.  The  conscious  or  connecting  link  between  our  ideas, 
which  forms  them  into  separate  groups  or  compares  different  parts 
and  views  of  a  subject  together,  seems  to  be  that  which  is  princi- 
pally wanting  in  sleep ;  so  that  any  idea  that  presents  itself  in 
this  anarchy  of  the  mind  is  lord  of  the  ascendant  for  the  moment, 
and  is  driven  out  by  the  next  straggling  notion  that  comes  across 
it.  The  bundles  of  thought  are,  as  it  were,  united,  loosened  from 
a  eommon  centre,  and  drift  along  the  stream  of  fancy  as  it  hap- 
pens. Hence  the  confusion  (not  the  concentration  of  the  facul- 
ties) that  continually  takes  place  in  this  state  of  half-perception. 
The  mind  takes  in  but  one  thing  at  a  time,  but  one  part  of  a  sub- 
ject, and  therefore  cannot  correct  its  sudden  and  heterogeneous 
transitions  from  one  momentary  impression  to  another  by  a  larger 
grasp  of  understanding.  Thus  we  confound  one  person  with 
another,  merely  from  some  accidental  coincidence,  the  name  or 
the  place  where  we  have  seen  them,  or  their  having  been  con- 
cerned with  us  in  some  particular  transaction  the  evening  before. 
They  lose  and  regain  their  proper  identity  perhaps  half  a 
dozen  times  in  this  rambling  way  ;  nor  are  we  able  (though 
we  are  somewhat  incredulous  and  surprised  at  these  compound 
creations)  to  detect  the  error,  from  not  being  prepared  to  trace 
the  same  connected  subject  of  thought  to  a  number  of  varying 
and    successive  ramifications,  or   to  form  the  idea  of  a  whole. 


152  TABLE  TALK. 


We  think  that  Mr.  Such-a-one  did  so  and  so :  then,  from  a 
second  face  coming  across  us,  like  the  sliders  of  a  magic  lan- 
tern, it  was  not  he,  but  another ;  then  some  one  calls  him  by 
his  right  name,  and  he  is  himself  again.  We  are  little  shocked 
at  these  gross  contradictions  ;  for  if  the  mind  was  capable  of 
perceiving  them  in  all  their  absurdity,  it  would  not  be  liable 
to  fall  into  them.  It  runs  into  them  for  the  same  reason  that 
it  is  hardly  conscious  of  them  when  made. 

"  That  which  was  now  a  horse,  a  bear,  a  cloud, 

Even  with  a  thought  the  rack  dislimns, 
And  makes  it  indistinct  as  water  is  in  water." 

The  difference,  so  far  then,  between  sleeping  and  waking  seems 
to  be,  that  in  the  latter  we  have  a  greater  range  of  conscious 
recollections,  a  larger  discourse  of  reason,  and  associate  ideas  in 
longer  trains  and  more  as  they  are  connected  one  with  another  in 
the  order  of  nature  ;  whereas  in  the  former,  any  two  impressions, 
that  meet  or  are  alike,  join  company,  and  then  are  parted  again, 
without  notice,  like  the  froth  from  the  wave.  So  in  madness, 
there  is,  I  should  apprehend,  the  same  tyranny  of  the  imagination 
over  the  judgment ;  that  is,  the  mind  has  slipped  its  cable,  and 
single  images  meet,  and  jostle,  and  unite  suddenly  together,  with- 
out any  power  to  arrange  or  compare  them  with  others,  with 
which  they  are  connected  in  the  world  of  reality.  There  is  a 
continual  phantasmagoria :  whatever  shapes  and  colors  come 
together  are  by  the  heat  and  violence  of  the  brain  referred  to  exter- 
nal nature,  without  regard  to  the  order  of  time,  place,  or  circum- 
stance. From  the  same  want  of  continuity,  we  often  forget  oui 
dreams  so  speedily :  if  we  cannot  catch  them  as  they  are  passing 
out  at  the  door,  we  never  set  eyes  on  them  again.  There  is  no 
clue  or  thread  of  imagination  to  trace  them  by.  In  a  morning 
sometimes  we  have  had  a  dream  that  we  try  in  vain  to  recollect ; 
it  is  gone,  like  the  rainbow  from  the  cloud.  At  other  times  (so 
evanescent  is  their  texture)  we  forget  that  we  have  dreamt  at  all ; 
and  at  these  times  the  mind  seems  to  have  been  a  mere  blank, 
and  sleep  presents  only  an  image  of  death.  Hence  has  arisen 
the  famous  dispute,  Whether  the  soul  thinks  always  ? — on  which 
Mr.  Locke  and  different  writers  have  bestowed  so  much  tedioua 


ON  DREAMS.  153 


and  unprofitable  discussion  ;  some  maintaining  that  the  mind  was 
like  a  watch  that  goes  continually,  though  more  slowly  and  irregu- 
larly at  one  time  than  another ;  while  the  opposite  party  con- 
tended that  it  often  stopped  altogether,  bringing  the  example  of 
sound  sleep  as  an  argument,  and  desiring  to  know  what  proof  we 
could  have  of  thoughts  passing  through  the  mind,  of  which  it  was 
itself  perfectly  unconscious,  and  retained  not  the  slightest  recol- 
lection. I  grant,  we  often  sleep  so  sound,  or  have  such  faint  ima- 
gery passing  through  the  brain,  that  if  we  awake  by  degrees,  we 
forget  it  altogether  :  we  recollect  our  first  waking,  and  perhaps 
some  imperfect  suggestions  of  fancy  just  before  ;  but  beyond  this, 
all  is  mere  oblivion.  But  I  have  observed  that  whenever  I  have 
been  waked  up  suddenly,  and  not  left  to  myself  to  recover  from 
this  state  of  mental  torpor,  I  have  been  always  dreaming  of  some- 
thing, i.  e.  thinking,  according  to  the  tenor  of  the  question.  Let 
any  one  call  you  at  any  time,  however  fast  asleep  you  may  be, 
you  make  out  their  voice  in  the  first  surprise  to  be  like  some  one's 
you  were  thinking  of  in  your  sleep.  Let  an  accidental  noise, 
the  falling  of  something  in  the  next  room,  rouse  you  up,  you  con- 
stantly find  something  to  associate  it  with,  or  translate  it  back 
into  the  language  of  your  slumbering  thoughts.  You  are  never 
taken  completely  at  a  nonplus — summoned,  as  it  were,  out  of  a 
state  of  non-existence.  It  is  easy  for  any  one  to  try  the  experi- 
ment upon  himself;  that  is,  to  examine  every  time  he  is  waked 
up  suddenly,  so  that  his  waking  and  sleeping  states  are  brought 
into  immediate  contact,  whether  he  has  not  in  all  such  cases  been 
dreaming  of  something,  and  not  fairly  caught  napping.  For 
myself,  I  think  I  can  speak  with  certainty.  It  would  indeed  be 
rather  odd  to  awake  out  of  such  an  absolute  privation  and  suspense 
of  thought  as  is  contended  for  by  the  partisans  of  the  contrary 
theory.  It  would  be  a  peep  into  the  grave,  a  consciousness  of 
death,  an  escape  from  the  world  of  non-entity  ! 

The  vividness  of  our  impressions  in  dreams,  of  which  so  much 
has  been  said,  seems  to  be  rather  apparent  than  real ;  or,  if  this 
mode  of  expression  should  be  objected  to  as  unwarrantable,  rather 
physical  than  mental.  It  is  a  vapor,  a  fume,  the  effect  of  the 
"  heat-oppressed  brain."  The  imagination  gloats  over  an  idea, 
and   doats  at  the  same  time.     However   warm  or  brilliant  the 

24 


154  TABLE  TALK. 


coloring  of  these  changing  appearances,  they  vanish  with  the 
dawn.  They  are  put  out  by  our  waking  thoughts,  as  the  sun 
puts  out  a  candle.  It  is  unlucky  that  we  sometimes  remember 
the  heroic  sentiments,  the  profound  discoveries,  the  witty  repar- 
tees we  have  uttered  in  our  sleep.  The  one  turn  to  bombast,  the 
others  are  mere  truisms,  and  the  last  absolute  nonsense.  Yet 
we  clothe  them  certainly  with  a  fancied  importance  at  the  mo- 
ment. This  seems  to  be  merely  the  effervescence  of  the  blood  or 
of  the  brain,  physically  acting.  It  is  an  odd  thing  in  sleep,  that 
we  not  only  fancy  we  see  different  persons,  and  talk  to  them,  but 
that  we  hear  them  make  answers,  and  startle  us  with  an  observa- 
tion or  a  piece  of  news  ;  and  though  we  of  course  put  the  answer 
into  their  mouths,  we  have  no  idea  beforehand  what  it  will  be,  and 
it  takes  us  as  much  by  surprise  as  it  would  in  reality.  This  kind 
of  successful  ventriloquism  which  we  practise  upon  ourselves 
may  perhaps  be  in  some  measure  accounted  for  from  the  short- 
sightedness and  incomplete  consciousness  which  were  remarked 
above  as  the  peculiar  characteristics  of  sleep. 

The  power  of  prophesying  or  foreseeing  things  in  our  sleep,  as 
from  a  higher  and  more  abstracted  sphere  of  thought,  need  not 
be  here  argued  upon.  There  is,  however,  a  sort  of  profundity  in 
sleep ;  and  it  may  be  usefully  consulted  as  an  oracle  in  this  way. 
It  may  be  said,  that  the  voluntary  power  is  suspended,  and  things 
come  upon  us  as  unexpected  revelations,  which  we  keep  out  of 
our  thoughts  at  other  times.  We  may  be  aware  of  a  danger, 
that  yet  we  do  not  choose,  while  we  have  the  full  command  of 
our  faculties,  to  acknowledge  to  ourselves :  the  impending  event 
will  then  appear  to  us  as  a  dream,  and  we  shall  most  likely  find 
it  verified  afterwards.  Another  thing  of  no  small  consequence 
is,  that  we  may  sometimes  discover  our  tacit,  and  almost  uncon- 
scious  sentiments,  with  respect  to  persons  or  things  in  the  same 
way.  )  We  are  not  hypocrites  in  our  sleep.  The  curb  is  taken 
off  from  our  passions,  and  our  imagination  wanders  at  will. 
When  awake,  we  check  these  rising  thoughts,  and  fancy  we  have 
them  not.  In  dreams,  when  we  are  off  our  guard,  they  return 
securely  and  unbidden.  We  may  make  this  use  of  the  infirmity 
of  our  sleeping  metamorphosis,  that  we  may  repress  any  feelings 
of  this  sort  that  we  disapprove  in  their  incipient  state,  and  detect, 


ON  DREAMS.  155 

I 


fire  it  be  too  late,  an  unwarrantable  antipathy  or  fatal  passion. 
Infants  cannot  disguise  their  thoughts  from  others ;  and  in  sleep 
we  reveal  the  secret  to  ourselves. 

It  should  appear  that  I  have  never  been  in  love,  for  the  same 
reason.  I  never  dream  of  the  face  of  any  one  I  am  particularly 
attached  to.  I  have  thought  almost  to  agony  of  the  same  person 
for  years,  nearly  without  ceasing,  so  as  to  have  her  face  always 
before  me,  and  to  be  haunted  by  a  perpetual  consciousness  of 
disappointed  passion,  and  yet  I  never  in  all  that  time  dreamt  of 
this  person  more  than  once  or  twice,  and  then  not  vividly.  I  con- 
ceive, therefore,  that  this  perseverance  of  the  imagination  in  a 
fruitless  track  must  have  been  owing  to  mortified  pride,  to  an 
intense  desire  and  hope  of  good  in  the  abstract,  more  than  to  love, 
which  I  consider  as  an  individual  and  involuntary  passion,  and 
which  therefore,  when  it  is  strong,  must  predominate  over  the 
fancy  in  sleep.  I  think  myself  into  love,  and  dream  myself  out 
of  it.  I  should  have  made  a  very  bad  Endymion,  in  this  sense ; 
for  all  the  time  the  heavenly  Goddess  was  shining  over  my  head, 
I  should  never  have  had  a  thought  about  her.  If  I  had  waked 
and  found  her  gone,  I  might  have  been  in  a  considerable  taking. 
Coleridge  used  to  laugh  at  me  for  my  want  of  the  faculty  of  dream- 
ing ;  and  once,  on  my  saying  that  I  did  not  like  the  preternatural 
stories  in  the  Arabian  Nights  (for  the  comic  parts  I  love  dearly), 
he  said,  "  That  must  be  because  you  never  dream.  There  is  a 
class  of  poetry  built  on  this  foundation,  which  is  surely  no  incon- 
siderable part  of  our  nature,  since  we  are  asleep  and  building  up 
imaginations  of  this  sort  half  our  time."  I  had  nothing  to  say 
against  it :  it  was  one  of  his  conjectural  subtleties,  in  which  he 
excels  all  the  persons  I  ever  knew  ;  but  I  had  some  satisfaction 
in  finding  afterwards,  that  I  had  Bishop  Atterbury  expressly  on 
my  side  in  this  question,  who  has  recorded  his  detestation  of 
Sinbad  the  Sailor,  in  an  interesting  letter  to  Pope .  Perhaps  he 
too  did  not  dream  ! 

Yet  I  dream  sometimes  ;  I  dream  of  the  Louvre — Intus  et  in 
cute.  I  dreamed  I  was  there  a  few  weeks  ago,  and  that  the  old 
scene  returned — that  I  looked  for  my  favorite  pictures,  and  found 
them  gone  or  erased.  The  dream  of  my  youth  came  upon  me  ; 
«  glory  and  a  vision  unutterable,  that  comes  no  more  but  in  dark- 

24* 


156  TABLE  TALK. 


ness  and  in  sleep :  my  heart  rose  up,  and  I  fell  on  my  knees,  and 
lifted  up  my  voice  and  wept,  and  I  awoke.  I  also  dreamed  a  little 
while  ago,  that  I  was  reading  the  New  Eloise  to  an  old  friend,  and 
came  to  the  concluding  passages  in  Julia's  farewell  letter,  which  had 
much  the  same  effect  upon  me.  The  words  are,  "Trap  heureuse 
d'acJieter  an  prix  de  ma  vie  le  droit  de  t' aimer  toujours  sans  crime 
et  de  te  le  dire  encore  une  fois,  avant  que  je  meurs  I"  I  used  to 
sob  over  this  passage  twenty  years  ago ;  and  in  this  dream  about 
it  lately,  I  seemed  to  live  these  twenty  years  over  again  in  one 
short  moment !  I  do  not  dream  ordinarily ;  and  there  are  people 
who  never  could  see  anything  in  the  New  Eloise.  Are  we  not 
quits? 


ON  ENVY.  HI 


ESSAY  XIII. 

On  Envy  (A  Dialogue). 

H.  I  had  a  theory  about  Envy  at  one  time,  which  I  have  partly 
given  up  of  late — which  was,  that  there  was  no  such  feeling,  or 
that  what  is  usually  considered  as  envy  or  dislike  of  real  mer 
is,  more  properly  speaking,  jealousy  of  false  pretensions  to  it.  1 
used  to  illustrate  the  argument  by  saying,  that  this  was  the  rea- 
son we  were  not  envious  of  the  dead,  because  their  merit  was 
established  beyond  the  reach  of  cavil  or  contradiction  ;  whereas 
we  are  jealous  and  uneasy  at  sudden  and  upstart  popularity, 
which  wants  the  seal  of  time  to  confirm  it,  and  which  after  all 
may  turn  out  to  be  false  and  hollow.  There  is  no  danger  that 
the  testimony  of  ages  should  be  reversed,  and  we  add  our  suf- 
frages to  it  with  confidence,  and  even  with  enthusiasm.  But  we 
doubt  reasonably  enough,  whether  that  which  was  applauded 
yesterday  may  not  be  condemned  to-morrow  ;  and  are  afraid  of 
setting  our  name  to  a  fraudulent  claim  to  distinction.  Howevel 
satisfied  we  may  be  in  our  own  minds,  we  are  not  sufficiently  born! 
out  by  a  general  opinion  and  sympathy  to  prevent  certain  mis 
givings  and  scruples  on  the  subject.  No  one  thinks,  for  instance 
of  denying  the  merit  of  Teniers  in  his  particular  style  of  art,  and 
no  one  consequently  thinks  of  envying  him.  The  merit  of  Wilkie, 
on  the  contrary,  was  at  first  strongly  contested,  and  there  were 
other  painters  set  up  in  opposition  to  him,  till  now  that  he  has 
become  a  sort  of  classic  in  his  way,  he  has  ceased  to  be  an  object 
of  envy  or  dislike,  because  no  one  doubts  his  real  excellence,  as 
far  as  it  goes.  He  has  no  more  than  justice  done  him,  and  the 
mind  never  revolts  at  justice.  It  only  rejects  false  or  superficial 
claims  to  admiration,  and  is  incensed  to  see  the  world  take  up 
with  appearances,  when  they  have  no  solid  foundation  to  support 
them.  We  are  not  envious  of  Rubens  or  Raphael,  because  theii 
fame  is  a  pledge  of  their  genius :  but  if  any  one  were  to  bring 


I5S  TABLE  TALK. 


forward  the  highest  living  names  as  equal  to  these,  it  immediately 
sets  the  blood  in  a  ferment,  and  we  try  to  stifle  the  sense  we  have 
of  their  merits,  not  because  they  are  new  or  modern,  but  because 
we  are  not  sure  they  will  ever  be  old.  Could  we  be  certain  that 
posterity  would  sanction  our  award,  we  should  grant  it  without 
scruple,  even  to  an  enemy  and  a  rival. 

N.  That  which  you  describe  is  not  envy.  Envy  is  when  ycu 
hate  and  would  destroy  all  excellence  that  you  do  not  yourself 
possess.  So  they  say  that  Raphael,  after  he  had  copied  the 
figures  on  one  of  the  antique  vases,  endeavored  to  deface  them ; 
and  Hoppner,  it  has  been  said,  used  to  get  pictures  of  Sir  Joshua's 
into  his  possession,  on  purpose  to  paint  them  over  and  spoil  them. 

H.  I  do  not  believe  the  first,  certainly.  Raphael  was  too  great 
a  man,  and  with  too  fortunate  a  temper,  to  need  or  to  wish  to  prop 
himself  up  on  the  ruins  of  others.  As  to  Hoppner,  he  might 
perhaps  think  that  there  was  no  good  reason  for  the  preference 
given  to  Sir  Joshua's  portraits  over  his  own,  that  his  women  of 
quality  were  the  more  airy  and  fashionable  of  the  two,  and  might 
be  tempted  (once  perhaps)  in  a  fit  of  spleen,  of  caprice  or  impa- 
tience, to  blot  what  was  an  eye-sore  to  himself  from  its  old- 
fashioned,  faded,  dingy  look,  and  at  the  same  time  dazzled  others 
from  the  force  of  tradition  and  prejudice.  Why,  he  might  argue, 
should  that  old  fellow  run  away  with  all  the  popularity  even  among 
those  who  (as  he  well  knew)  in  their  hearts  preferred  his  own 
insipid,  flaunting  style  to  any  other  ?  Though  it  might  be  true 
that  Sir  Joshua  was  the  greater  painter,  yet  it  was  not  true  that 
Lords  and  Ladies  thought  so :  he  felt  that  he  ought  to  be  their 
favorite,  and  he  might  naturally  hate  what  was  continually  thrust 
in  his  dish,  and  (as  far  as  those  about  him  were  concerned)  un- 
justly set  over  his  head.  Besides,  Hoppner  had  very  little  of  his 
own  to  rely  on,  and  might  wish,  by  destroying,  to  conceal  the 
source  from  whence  he  had  borrowed  almost  everything. 

N.  Did  you  nevei  feel  envy  ? 

H.  Very  little,  I  think.  In  truth,  I  am  out  of  the  way  of  it : 
for  the  only  pretension,  of  which  I  am  tenacious,  is  that  of  being 
a  metaphysician ;  and  there  is  so  little  attention  paid  to  this  sub- 
ject  to  pamper  one's  vanity,  and  so  little  fear  of  losing  that  little 
from  competition,  that  there  is  scarcely  any  room  for  envy  here. 


ON  ENVY.  159 

One  occupies  the  niche  of  eminence  in  which  one  places  one's 
self,  very  quietly  and  contentedly  !  If  I  have  ever  felt  this  pas- 
sion  at  all,  it  has  been  where  some  very  paltry  fellow  has  by  trick 
and  management  contrived  to  obtain  much  more  credit  than  he 

was  entitled  to.     There  was ,  to  whom  I  had  a  perfect 

antipathy.  He  was  the  antithesis  of  a  man  of  genius ;  and  yet 
he  did  better,  by  mere  dint  of  dullness,  than  many  men  of  genius. 
This  was  intolerable.  There  was  something  in  the  man  and  in 
his  manner,  with  which  you  could  not  possibly  connect  the  idea 
of  admiration,  or  of  anything  that  was  not  merely  mechanical — 

"  His  look  made  the  still  air  cold." 

He  repelled  all  sympathy  and  cordiality.  What  he  did  (though 
amounting  only  to  mediocrity)  was  an  insult  on  the  understanding. 
It  seemed  that  he  should  be  able  to  do  nothing  ;  for  he  was  nothing 
either  in  himself  or  in  other  people's  idea  of  him  !  Mean  actions 
or  gross  expressions  too  often  unsettle  one's  theory  of  genius.  We 
are  unable  as  well  as  unwilling  to  connect  the  feeling  of  high  intel- 
lect with  low  moral  sentiment :  the  one  is  a  kind  of  desecration 
of  the  other.  I  have  for  this  reason  been  sometimes  disposed  to 
disparage  Turner's  fine  landscapes,  and  be  glad  when  he  failed  in 
his  higher  attempts,  in  order  that  my  conception  of  the  artist  and 
his  pictures  might  be  more  of  a  piece.  This  is  not  envy  or  an 
impatience  of  extraordinary  merit,  but  an  impatience  of  the  incon- 
gruities in  human  nature,  and  of  the  drawbacks  and  stumbling- 
blocks  in  the  way  of  our  admiration  of  it  Who  is  there  that 
admires  the  Author  of  Waverley  more  than  I  do  ?  Who  is  there 
that  despises  Sir  Walter  Scott  more  ?  I  do  not  like  to  think  there 
should  be  a  second  instance  of  the  same  person's  being 

"  The  wisest,  meanest  of  mankind—" 

and  should  be  heartily  glad  if  the  greatest  genius  of  the  age  should 
turn  out  to  be  an  honest  man.  The  only  thing  that  renders  this 
mis-alliance  between  first-rate  intellect  and  want  of  principle  en 
durable  is  that  such  an  extreme  instance  of  it  teaches  us  that 
great  moral  lesson  of  moderating  our  expectations  of  human  per- 
fection, and  enlarging  our  indulgence  for  human  infirmity 


160  TABLE  TALK. 


N.  You  start  off  with  an  idea  as  usual,  and  torture  the  plain 
state  of  the  case  into  a  paradox.  There  may  be  some  truth  in 
what  you  suppose  ;  but  malice  or  selfishness  is  at  the  bottom  of 
the  severity  of  your  criticism,  not  the  love  of  truth  or  justice, 
though  you  may  make  it  the  pretext.  You  are  more  angry  at  Sir 
Walter  Scott's  success  than  at  his  servility.  You  would  give 
yourself  no  trouble  about  his  poverty  of  spirit,  if  he  had  not  made 
a  hundred  thousand  pounds  by  his  writings.  The  sting  lies  there, 
though  you  may  try  to  conceal  it  from  yourself. 

H.  I  do  not  think  so.  I  hate  the  sight  of  the  Duke  of  Wel- 
lington for  his  foolish  face,  as  much  as  for  anything  else.  I  can- 
not believe  that  a  great  general  is  contained  under  such  a  paste- 
board vizor  of  a  man.  This,  you'll  say,  is  party  spite,  and  rage 
at  his  good-fortune.  I  deny  it.  I  always  liked  Lord  Castlereagh 
for  the  gallant  spirit  that  shone  through  his  appearance  ;  and  his 
fine  bust  surmounted  and  crushed  fifty  orders  that  glittered  beneath 
it.  Nature  seemed  to  have  meant  him  for  something  better  than 
he  was.  But  in  the  other  instance,  Fortune  has  evidently  played 
Nature  a  trick, 

"  To  throw  a  cruel  sunshine  on  a  fool." 

N.  The  truth  is,  you  were  reconciled  to  Lord  Castlereagh's  face, 
and  patronized  his  person,  because  you  felt  a  sort  of  advantage 
over  him  in  point  of  style.  His  blunders  qualified  his  success  ; 
and  you  fancied  you  could  take  his  speeches  in  pieces,  whereas" 
you  could  not  undo  the  battles  the  other  had  won. 

H.  So  I  have  been  accused  of  denying  the  merits  of  Pitt, 
from  political  dislike  and  prejudice  :  but  who  is  there  that  has 
praised  Burke  more  than  I  have  ?  It  is  a  subject  I  am  never 
weary  of,  because  I  feel  it.  ( 

N.  You  mean,  because  he  is  dead,  and  is  now  little  talked  of; 
and  you  think  you  show  superior  discernment  and  liberality  by 
praising  him.  If  there  was  a  Burke-Club,  you  would  say  nothing 
about  him.  You  deceive  yourself  as  to  your  own  motives,  and 
weave  a  wrong  theory  out  of  them  for  human  nature.  The  love 
of  distinction  is  the  ruling  passion  of  the  human  mind  ;  we  grudge 
whatever  draws  off  attention  from  ourselves  to  others ;  and  all 
our  actions  are  but  different  contrivances,  either  by  sheer  malice 


CN  ENVY.  161 

or  affected  liberality,  to  keep  it  to  ourselves  or  share  it  with 
others.  Goldsmith  was  jealous  even  of  beauty  in  the  other  sex. 
When  the  people  of  Amsterdam  gathered  round  the  balcony  to 
look  at  the  Miss  Hornecks,  he  grew  impatient,  and  said  peevishly, 
"  There  are  places  where  I  also  am  admired."  It  may  be  said — 
What  could  their  beauty  have  to  do  with  his  reputation  ?  No :  it 
could  not  tend  to  lessen  it,  but  it  drew  admiration  from  himself  to 
them.  So  Mr.  Croker,  the  other  day,  when  he  was  at  the  Acade- 
my dinner,  made  himself  conspicuous  by  displaying  the  same 
feeling.  He  found  fault  with  everything,  damned  all  the  pictures 
— landscapes,  portraits,  busts,  nothing  pleased  him  ;  and  not  con- 
tented with  this,  he  then  fell  foul  of  the  art  itself,  which  he  treat- 
ed as  a  piece  of  idle  foolery,  and  said  that  Raphael  had  thrown 
away  his  time  in  doing  what  was  not  worth  the  trouble.  This, 
besides  being  insincere,  was  a  great  breach  of  good-manners, 
which  none  but  a  low-bred  man  would  be  guilty  of;  but  he  felt 
his  own  consequence  annoyed ;  he  saw  a  splendid  exhibition  of 
art,  a  splendid  dinner  set  out,  the  Nobility,  the  Cabinet-Ministers, 
the  branches  of  the  Royal  Family  invited  to  it ;  the  most  eminent 
professors  were  there  present ;  it  was  a  triumph  and  a  celebration 
of  art ;  a  dazzling  proof  of  the  height  to  which  it  had  attained  in 
this  country,  and  of  the  esteem  in  which  it  was  held.  He  felt 
that  he  played  a  very  subordinate  part  in  all  this  ;  and  in  order 
to  relieve  his  own  wounded  vanity,  he  was  determined  (as  he 
thought)  to  mortify  that  of  others.  He  wanted  to  make  himself 
of  more  importance  than  anybody  else,  by  trampling  on  Raphael 
and  on  the  art  itself.  It  was  ridiculous  and  disgusting,  because  every 
one  saw  through  the  motive  ;  so  that  he  defeated  his  own  object. 

H.  And  he  would  have  avoided  this  exposure,  if  with  all  his 
conceit  and  ill-humor,  he  had  had  the  smallest  taste  for  the  art,  or 
perception  of  the  beauties  of  Raphael.  He  has  just  knowledge 
enough  of  drawing  to  make  a  whole-length  sketch  of  Bonaparte, 
verging  on  caricature,  yet  not  palpably  outraging  probability ;  so 
that  it  looked  like  a  fat,  stupid,  common-place  man,  or  a  flattering 
likeness  of  some  legitimate  monarch — he  had  skill,  cunning,  ser- 
vility enough  to  do  this  with  his  own  hand,  and  to  circulate  a  print 
of  it  with  zealous  activity,  as  an  indirect  means  of  degrading  him 
in  appearance  to  that  low  level  to  which  fortune  had  once  raised 

SECOND    SERIES. PART  I.  12 


162  TABLE  TALK. 


him  in  reality.  But  the  man  who  could  do  this  deliberately,  and 
with  satisfaction  to  his  own  nature,  was.  not  the  man  to  understand 
Raphael,  and  might  slander  him  or  any  other,  the  greatest  of 
earth's  born,  without  injuring  or  belying  any  feeling  of  admira- 
tion or  excellence  in  his  own  breast ;  for  no  such  feeling  had  ever 
entered  there. 

N.  Come,  this  is  always  the  way.  Now  you  are  growing 
personal.  Why  do  you  so  constantly  let  your  temper  get  the 
better  of  your  reason  ? 

H.  Because  I  hate  a  hypocrite,  a  time-server,  and  a  slave. 
But  to  return  to  the  question,  and  say  no  more  about  this  "  talking 
fotatoe"* — I  do  not  think  that,  except  in  circumstances  of  pecu- 
liar aggravation,  or  of  extraordinary  ill-temper  and  moroseness  of 
disposition,  any  one  who  has  a  thorough  feeling  of  excellence  has 
a  delight  in  gainsaying  it.  The  excellence  that  we  feel,  we  partici- 
pate in  as  if  it  were  our  own — it  becomes  ours  by  transfusion  of  mind 
— it  is  instilled  into  our  hearts — it  mingles  with  our  blood.  We  are 
unwilling  to  allow  merit,  because  we  are  unable  to  perceive  it.  But 
to  be  convinced  of  it,  is  to  be  ready  to  acknowledge  and  pay  horn- 
age  to  it.  Illiberality  or  narrowness  of  feeling  is  a  narrowness  of 
aste,  a  want  of  proper  tact.  A  bigoted  and  exclusive  spirit  i:- 
real  blindness  to  all  excellence  but  our  own,  or  that  of  some  par 
ticular  school  or  sect.  I  think  I  can  give  an  instance  of  this  ir 
some  friends  of  mine,  on  whom  you  will  be  disposed  to  have  nc 
more  mercy  than  I  have,  on  Mr.  Croker — I  mean  the  Lake  School. 
Their  system  of  Ostracism  is  not  unnatural  :  it  begins  only  with 
the  natural  limits  of  their  tastes  and  feelings.  Mr.  Wordsworth, 
Mr.  Coleridge,  and  Mr.  Southey  have  no  feeling  for  the  excellence 
of  Pope,  or  Goldsmith,  or  Gray — they  do  not  enter  at  all  into 
their  merits,  and  on  that  account  it  is  that  they  deny,  proscribe, 
and  envy  them.  Incredulus  odi,  is  the  explanation  here,  and  in 
all  such  cases.  I  am  satisfied  that  the  fine  turn  of  thought  in 
Pope,  the  gliding  verse  of  Goldsmith,  the  brilliant  diction  of  Gray 
have  no  charms  for  the  Author  of  the  Lyrical  Ballads :  he  has  no 
faculty  in  his  mind  to  which  these  qualities  of  poetry  address 

•  Mr.  Croker  made  his  first  appearance  in  this  country  as  a  hack-writer, 
and  received  this- surname  from  the  classic  lips  of  Mr.  Cumberland. 


ON  ENVY.  163 


themselves.  It  is  not  an  oppressive,  galling  sense  of  them,  and  a 
burning  envy  to  rival  them,  and  shame  that  he  cannot — he  would 
not,  if  he  could.  He  has  no  more  ambition  to  write  couplets  like 
Pope,  than  to  turn  a  barrel-organ.  He  has  no  pleasure  in  such 
poetry,  and  therefore  he  has  no  patience  with  others  that  have. 
The  enthusiasm  that  they  feel  and  express  on  the  subject  seeina 
an  effect  without  a  cause,  and  puzzles  and  provokes  the  mind 
accordingly.  Mr.  Wordsworth,  in  particular,  is  narrower  in  his 
tastes  than  other  people,  because  he  sees  everything  from  a  single 
and  original  point  of  view.  Whatever  does  not  fall  in  strictly 
with  this,  he  accounts  no  better  than  a  play  or  a  delusion,  or  a  play 
upon  words. 

N.  You  mistake  the  matter  altogether.  The  acting  principle 
in  their  minds  is  an  inveterate  selfishness  or  desire  of  distinction. 
They  see  that  a  particular  kind  of  excellence  has  been  carried  to 
its  height — a  height  that  they  have  no  hope  of  arriving  at — the 
road  is  stopped  up ;  they  must  therefore  strike  into  a  different 
path  ;  and  in  order  to  divert  the  public  mind  and  draw  attention 
to  themselves,  they  affect  to  decry  the  old  models,  and  overturn 
what  they  cannot  rival.  They  know  they  cannot  write  like  Pope 
or  Dryden,  or  would  be  only  imitators  if  they  did  ;  and  they  con- 
sequently strive  to  gain  an  original  and  equal  celebrity  by  singu- 
larity and  affectation.  Their  simplicity  is  not  natural  to  them  :  it 
is  the  forlorn-hope  of  impotent  and  disappointed  vanity. 

H.  I  cannot  think  that.  It  may  be  so  in  part,  but  not  princi- 
pally or  altogether.  Their  minds  are  cast  in  a  peculiar  mould, 
and  they  cannot  produce  or  receive  any  other  impressions  than 
those  which  they  do.  They  are,  as  to  matters  of  taste,  tres 
bornes. 

N.  You  make  them  out  stupider  than  I  thought.  I  have  some- 
times spoken  disrespectfully  of  their  talents,  and  so  I  think,  com- 
paratively with  those  of  some  of  our  standard  writers.  But  I 
certainly  should  never  conceive  them  so  lost  to  common  sense,  as 
not  to  perceive  the  beauty,  or  splendor,  or  strength  of  Pope  and 
Dryden.  They  are  dazzled  by  it,  and  wilfully  shut  their  eyes  to 
it,  and  try  to  throw  dust  in  those  of  other  people.  We  easily  dis- 
cern and  are  confounded  by  excellence,  which  we  are  conscious 
we  should  in  vain  attempt  to  equal.     We  may  see  that  another  is 


o4  TABLE  TALK. 


taller  than  ourselves,  and  yet  we  may  know  that  we  can  never 
grow  to  his  stature.     A  dwarf  may  easily  envy  a  giant. 

H..  They  would  like  the  comparison  to  Polyphemus  in  "  Acis 
and  Galatea  "  better.  They  think  that  little  men  have  run  away 
with  the  prize  of  beauty. 

N.  No  one  admires  poetry  more  than  I  do,  or  sees  more  beau- 
ties in  it ;  though  if  I  were  to  try  a  thousand  years,  I  should  never 
be  able  to  do  anything  to  please  myself. 

H.  Perhaps  not  in  the  mechanical  part ;  but  still  you  admire 
and  are  most  struck  with  those  passages  in  poetry,  that  accord 
with  the  previous  train  of  your  own  feelings,  and  give  you  back 
the  images  of  your  own  mind.  There  is  something  congenial  in 
taste,  at  least,  between  ourselves  and  those  we  admire.  I  do  not 
think  there  is  any  point  of  sympathy  between  Pope  and  the  Lake 
School :  on  the  contrary,  I  know  there  is  an  antipathy  between 
them.  When  you  speak  of  Titian,  you  look  like  him.  I  can 
understand  how  it  is  that  you  talk  so  well  on  that  subject,  and  that 
your  discourse  has  an  extreme  unction  about  it,  a  marrowiness  like 
his  coloring.  But  I  do  not  believe  that  the  late  Mr.  West  had  the 
least  notion  of  Titian's  peculiar  excellences — he  would  think  one 
of  his  own  copies  of  him  as  good  as  the  original,  and  his  own 
historical  compositions  much  better.  He  would  therefore,  I  con- 
ceive, sit  and  listen  to  a  conversation  in  praise  of  him  with  some- 
thing like  impatience,  and  think  it  an  interruption  to  more  import- 
ant discussions  on  the  principles  of  high  art.  But  if  Mr.  West 
had  ever  seen  in  nature  what  there  is  to  be  found  in  Titian's  copies 
from  it,  he  would  never  have  thought  of  such  a  comparison,  and 
would  have  bowed  his  head  in  deep  humility  at  the  very  mention 
of  his  name.  He  might  not  have  been  able  to  do  like  him,  and 
yet  might  have  seen  nature  with  the  same  eyes. 

N.  We  do  not  always  admire  most  what  we  can  do  best ;  but 
often  the  contrary.  Sir  Joshua's  admiration  of  Michael  Angelo 
was  perfectly  sincere  and  unaffected  ;  but  yet  nothing  could  be 
more  diametrically  opposite  than  the  minds  of  the  two  men — there 
was  an  absolute  gulf  between  them.  It  was  the  consciousness 
of  his  own  inability  to  execute  such  works,  that  made  him  more 
sensible  of  the  difficulty  and  the  merit.  It  was  the  same  with  his 
fondness  for  Poussin.     He  was  always  exceedingly  angry  with 


GN  ENVY.  185 


me  for  not  admiring  him  enough.  But  this  showed  his  good  sense 
and  modesty.  Sir  Joshua  was  always  on  the  look-out  for  what- 
ever might  enlarge  his  notions  on  the  subject  of  his  art,  and  sup- 
ply his  defects  ;  and  did  not,  like  some  artists,  measure  all  possi- 
ble excellence  by  his  own  actual  deficiencies.  He  thus  improved 
and  learned  something  daily.  Others  have  lost  their  way  by  set 
ting  out  with  a  pragmatical  notion  of  their  own  self-sufficiencj', 
and  have  never  advanced  a  single  step  beyond  their  first  crude 
conceptions.  Fuseli  was  to  blame  in  this  respect.  He  did  not 
want  capacity  or  enthusiasm,  but  he  had  an  overweening  opinion 
of  his  own  peculiar  acquirements.  Speaking  of  Vandyke,  he 
said  he  would  not  go  across  the  way  to  see  the  finest  portrait  he 
nad  ever  painted.  He  asked — "  What  is  it  but  a  little  bit  of  co- 
lor V  Sir  Joshua  said,  on  hearing  this — "  Aye,  he  '11  live  to 
repent  it."  And  he  has  lived  to  repent  it.  With  that  little  bit 
added  to  his  own  heap,  he  would  have  been  a  much  greater 
painter,  and  a  happier  man. 

H.  Yes  :  but  I  doubt  whether  he  could  have  added  it  in  prac 
tice.  I  think  the  indifference,  in  the  first  instance,  arises  from 
the  want  of  taste  and  capacity.  If  Fuseli  had  possessed  an  eye 
for  color,  he  would  not  have  despised  it  in  Vandyke.  But  we 
reduce  others  to  the  limits  of  our  own  capacity.  We  think  little 
of  what  we  cannot  do,  and  envy  it  where  we  imagine  that  it 
meets  with  disproportioned  admiration  from  others.  A  dull,  pom- 
pous and  obscure  writer  has  been  heard  to  exclaim,  "  That  dunce, 
Wordsworth  !"  This  was  excusable  in  one  who  is  utterly  with- 
out feeling  for  any  objects  in  nature,  but  those  which  would  make 
splendid  furniture  for  a  drawing-room,  or  any  sentiment  of  the 
human  heart,  but  that  with  which  a  slave  looks  up  to  a  despot,  or 
a  despot  looks  down  upon  a  slave.  This  contemptuous  expres- 
sion was  an  effusion  of  spleen  and  impatience  at  the  idea  tha 
there  should  be  any  one  who  preferred  Wordsworth's  descriptions 
of  a  daisy  or  a  linnet's  nest  to  his  auctioneer-poetry  about  cur- 
tains, and  palls,  and  sceptres,  and  precious  stones :  but  had 
Wordsworth,  in  addition  to  his  original  sin  of  simplicity  and  true 
genius,  been  a  popular  writer,  his  contempt  would  have  turned 
into  hatred  As  it  is,  he  tolerates  his  idle  nonsense  :  there  is  a 
link  of  friendship  in  mutual   political  servility  ;  and  besides,  he 


166  TABLE  TALK. 


has  a  fellow  feeling  with  him,  as  one  of  those  writers  of  whose 
merits  the  world  have  not  been  fully  sensible.  Mr.  Croly  set  out 
with  high  pretensions,  and  had  some  idea  of  rivalling  Lord  Byron 
in  a  certain  lofty,  imposing  style  of  versification  :  but  he  is  pro- 
bably by  this  time  convinced  that  mere  constitutional  hauteur  as 
ill  supplies  the  place  of  elevation  of  genius,  as  of  the  pride  of 
birth ;  and  that  the  public  know  how  to  distinguish  between  a 
string  of  gaudy,  painted,  turgid  phrases,  and  the  vivid  creations 
of  fancy,  or  touching  delineations  of  the  human  heart. 

N.  What  did  you  say  the  writer's  name  was  ? 

H.  Croly.     He  is  one  of  the  Royal  Society  of  Authors. 

N.  I  never  heard  of  him.  Is  he  an  imitator  of  Lord  Byron, 
did  you  say  ? 

H.  I  am  afraid  neither  he  nor  Lord  Byron  would  have  it 
thought  so. 

N.  Such  imitators  do  all  the  mischief,  and  bring  real  genius 
into  disrepute.  This  is  in  some  measure  an  excuse  for  those  who 
have  endeavored  to  disparage  Pope  and  Dry  den.  We  have  had 
a  surfeit  of  imitations  of  them.  Poetry,  in  the  hands  of  a  set  of 
mechanic  scribblers,  had  become  such  a  tame,  mawkish  thing, 
that  we  could  endure  it  no  longer,  and  our  impatience  of  the  abuse 
of  a  good  thing  transferred  itself  to  the  original  source.  It  was 
this  which  enabled  Wordsworth  and  the  rest  to  raise  up  a  new 
school  (or  to  attempt  it)  on  the  ruins  of  Pope  ;  because  a  race  of 
writers  had  succeeded  him  without  one  particle  of  his  wit,  sense 
and  delicacy,  and  the  world  were  tired  of  their  everlasting  sing- 
song and  namby-pamby.  People  were  disgusted  at  hearing  the 
faults  of  Pope  (the  part  most  easily  imitated)  cried  up  as  his 
greatest  excellence,  and  were  willing  to  take  refuge  from  such 
nauseous  cant  in  any  novelty. 

H.  What  you  now  observe  comes  nearly  to  my  account  of  the 
matter.  Sir  Andrew  Wylie  will  sicken  people  of  the  Author  of 
Waverley.  It  was  but  the  other  day  that  some  one  was  propos- 
ing that  there  should  be  a  Society  formed  for  not  reading  the 
Scotch  Novels.  But  it  is  not  the  excellence  of  that  fine  writer 
that  we  are  tired  of,  or  revolt  at,  but  vapid  imitations  or  catch- 
penny repetitions  of  himself.  Even  the  quantity  of  them  has  an 
obvious  tendency  to  lead  to  this  effect.     It  lessens,  instead  of 


ON  ENVY.  167 

increasing  our  admiration  :  for  it  seems  to  be  an  evidence  that 
there  is  no  difficulty  in  the  task,  and  leads  us  to  suspect  something 
like  trick  or  deception  in  their  production.  We  have  not  been 
used  to  look  upon  works  of  genius  as  of  the  fungus  tribe.  Yet 
these  are  so.  We  had  rather  doubt  our  own  taste  than  ascribe 
such  a  superiority  of  genius  to  another,  that  it  works  without  con- 
sciousness or  effort,  executes  the  labor  of  a  life  in  a  few  weeks, 
writes  faster  than  the  public  can  read,  and  scatters  the  rich  mate, 
rials  of  thought  and  feeling  like  so  much  chaff. 

N.  Aye,  there  it  is.  We  had  rather  do  anything  than  ac- 
knowledge the  merit  of  another,  if  we  have  any  possible  excuse 
or  evasion  to  help  it.  Depend  upon  it,  you  are  glad  Sir  Walter 
Scott  is  a  Tory — because  it  gives  you  an  opportunity  of  qualify- 
ing your  involuntary  admiration  of  him.  You  would  be  sorry 
indeed  if  he  were  what  you  call  an  honest  man  !  Envy  is  like  a 
viper  coiled  up  at  the  bottom  of  the  heart,  ready  to  spring  upon  and 
poison  whatever  approaches  it.  We  live  upon  the  vices,  the  im- 
perfections, the  misfortunes,  and  disappointments  of  others,  as  our 
natural  food.  We  cannot  bear  a  superior  or  an  equal.  Even  our 
pretended  cordial  admiration  is  only  a  subterfuge  of  our  vanity. 
By  raising  one,  we  proportionably  lower  and  mortify  others.  Our 
self-love  may  perhaps  be  taken  by  surprise  and  thrown  off  its 
guard  by  novelty  ;  but  it  soon  recovers  itself,  and  begins  to  cool 
in  its  warmest  expressions,  and  finds  every  possible  fault.  Ridi- 
cule, for  this  reason,  is  sure  to  prevail  over  truth,  because  the 
malice  of  mankind  thrown  into  the  scale  gives  the  casting- weight. 
We  have  one  succession  of  authors,  of  painters,  of  favorites,  after 
another,  whom  we  hail  in  their  turns,  because  they  operate  as  a 
diversion  to  one  another,  and  relieve  us  of  the  galling  sense  of  the 
superiority  of  any  one  individual  for  any  length  of  time.  By 
changing  the  object  of  our  admiration,  we  secretly  persuade  our. 
selves  that  there  is  no  such  thing  as  excellence.  It  is  that  which 
we  hate  above  all  things.  It  is  the  worm  that  gnaws  us,  that 
never  dies.  The  mob  shout  when  a  king  or  a  conqueror  appears  : 
they  would  take  him  and  tear  him  in  pieces,  but  that  he  is  the 
scape-goat  of  their  pride  and  vanity,  and  makes  all  other  men 
appear  like  a  herd  of  slaves  and  cowards.  Instead  of  a  thousand 
equals,  we  compound  for  one  superior,  and  allay  all  heart-burn. 


108  TABLE  TALK. 


ings  and  animosities  among  ourselves,  by  giving  the  palm  to  the 
least  worthy.  This  is  the  secret  of  monarchy.  Loyalty  is  not  the 
love  of  kings,  but  hatred  and  jealousy  of  mankind.  A  lacquey 
rides  behind  his  lord's  coach,  and  feels  no  envy  of  his  master. 
Why  ?  because  he  looks  down  and  laughs,  in  his  borrowed  finery, 
at  the  ragged  rabble  below.  Is  it  not  so  in  our  profession  ?  What 
Academician  eats  his  dinner  in  peace,  if  a  rival  sits  near  him  ;  if 
his  own  are  not  the  most  admired  pictures  in  the  room  ;  or,  in 
that  case,  if  there  are  any  others  that  are  at  all  admired,  and 
divide  distinction  with  him  ?  Is  not  every  artifice  used  to  place 
the  pictures  of  other  artists  in  the  worst  light  ?  Do  they  not  go 
there  after  their  performances  are  hung  up,  and  try  to  paint  one 
another  out  ?  What  is  the  case  among  players  ?  Does  not  a 
favorite  actor  threaten  to  leave  the  stage,  as  soon  as  a  new  can- 
didate for  public  favor  is  taken  the  least  notice  of  ?  Would 
not  a  Manager  of  a  theatre  (who  has  himself  pretensions)  sooner 
see  it  burnt  down,  than  that  it  should  be  saved  from  ruin  and 
lifted  into  the  full  tide  of  public  prosperity  and  favor,  by  the 
efforts  of  one  whom  he  conceives  to  have  supplanted  himself 
in  the  popular  opinion  ?  Do  we  not  see  an  author,  who  has 
had  a  tragedy  damned,  sit  at  the  play  every  night  of  a  new  per- 
formance for  years  after,  in  the  hopes  of  gaining  a  new  companion 
in  defeat  ?  Is  it  not  an  indelible  offence  to  a  picture-collector 
and  patron  of  the  arts,  to  hint  that  another  has  a  fine  head  in 
his  collection  ?  Will  any  merchant  in  the  city  allow  another 
to  be  worth  a  plum  ?  What  wit  will  applaud  a  bon  mot  by  a 
rival  1  He  sits  uneasy  and  out  of  countenance,  till  he  has 
made  another,  which  he  thinks  will  make  the  company  forget 
the  first.  Do  women  ever  allow  beauty  in  others  ?  Observe  the 
people  in  a  country-town,  and  see  how  they  look  at  those  who 
are  better  dressed  than  themselves ;  listen  to  the  talk  in  coun- 
try-places, and  mind  if  it  is  composed  of  anything  but  slanders, 
gossip,  and  lies. 

H.  But  don't  you  yourself  admire  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  ? 

N.  Why,  yes :  I  think  I  have  no  envy  myself,  and  yet  I  have 
sometimes  caught  myself  at  it.  I  don't  know  that  I  do  not  ad- 
mire  Sir  Joshua  merely  as  a  screen  against  the  reputation  of  bad 
pictures. 


ON  ENVY.  I* 

H.  Then,  at  any  rate,  what  I  say  is  true :  we  envy  the  good 
less  than  we  do  the  bad. 

N.  I  do  not  think  so  ;  and  am  not  sure  that  Sir  Joshua  did 
himself  not  admire  Michael  Angeio  to  get  rid  of  the  superiority 
of  Titian,  Rubens,  and  Rembranat,  which  pressed  closer  on  him, 
and  "  galled  his  kibe  more." 

H.  I  should  not  think  that  at  aii  unlikely ;  for  I  look  upon  Sir 
Joshua  as  rather  a  spiteful  man,  ana  always  thought  he  could 
have  little  real  feeling  for  the  wonts  of  Michael  Angeio  or  Ra- 
phael, which  he  extolled  so  highly,  or  he  would  not  have  been 
insensible  to  their  effect  the  first  time  ne  ever  beheld  them. 

N.  He  liked  Sir  Peter  Lely  better. 


170  TABLE  TALK. 


ESSAY  XIV. 

On  the  difference  between  Writing  and  Speaking. 

"  Some  minds  are  proportioned  to  that  which  may  be  despatched  at 
once,  or  within  a  short  return  of  time :  others  to  that  which  begins  afar 
off',  and  is  to  be  won  with  length  of  pursuit."    Lord  Bacow. 

It  is  a  common  observation,  that  few  persons  can  be  found  who 
speak  and  write  equally  well.  Not  only  is  it  obvious  that  the 
two  faculties  do  not  always  go  together  in  the  same  proportions : 
but  they  are  not  usually  in  direct  opposition  to  each  other.  We 
find  that  the  greatest  authors  often  make  the  worst  company  in 
the  world  ;  and  again,  some  of  the  liveliest  fellows  imaginable  in 
'conversation,  or  extempore  speaking,  seem  to  lose  all  their  vivacity 
and  spirit  the  moment  they  set  pen  to  paper.  For  this  a  greatei 
degree  of  quickness  or  slowness  of  parts,  education,  habit,  temper, 
tun  of  mind,  and  a  variety  of  collateral  and  predisposing  causes, 
are  necessary  to  account.  The  subject  is  at  least  curious,  and 
worthy  of  an  attempt  to  explain  it.  I  shall  endeavor  to  illustrate  the 
difference  by  familiar  examples  rather  than  by  analytical  reason- 
ings. The  philosopher  of  old  was  not  unwise,  who  defined  motion 
by  getting  up  and  walking. 

The  great  leading  distinction  between  writing  and  speaking  is, 
that  more  time  is  allowed  for  the  one  than  the  other  :  and  hence 
different  faculties  are  required  for,  and  different  objects  attained 
by,  each.  He  is  properly  the  best  speaker  who  can  collect 
together  the  greatest  number  of  apposite  ideas  at  a  moment's 
warning :  he  is  properly  the  best  writer  who  can  give  utterance 
to  the  greatest  quantity  of  valuable  knowledge  in  the  course  of  his 
whole  life.  The  chief  requisite  for  the  one,  then,  appears  to  be 
quickness  and  facility  of  perception — for  the  other,  patience  of  soul, 
and  a  power  increasing  with  the  difficulties  it  has  to  master.  He 
cannot  be  denied  to  be  an  expert  speaker,  a  lively  companion, 


THE  DIFFERENCE  BETWEEN  WRITING  AND  SPEAKING    171 

who  is  never  at  a  loss  for  something  to  say  on  every  occasion  or 
subject  that  offers :  he,  by  the  same  rule,  will  make  a  respectable 
writer,  who,  by  dint  of  study,  can  find  out  anything  good  to  say 
upon  any  one  point  that  has  not  been  touched  upon  before,  or  who, 
by  asking  for  time,  can  give  the  most  complete  and  comprehen- 
sive view  of  any  question.  The  one  must  be  done  off-hand,  at  a 
single  blow  :  the  other  can  only  be  done  by  a  repetition  of  blows, 
by  having  time  to  think  and  do  better.  In  speaking,  less  is 
required  of  you,  if  you  only  do  it  at  once,  with  grace  and  spirit :  in 
writing,  you  stipulate  for  all  that  you  are  capable  of,  but  you  have 
the  choice  of  your  own  time  and  subject.  You  do  not  expect 
from  the  manufacturer  the  same  dispatch  in  executing  an  order 
that  you  do  from  the  shopkeeper  or  warehouseman.  The  differ- 
ence of  quicker  and  slower,  however,  is  not  all :  that  is  merely  a 
difference  of  comparison  in  doing  the  same  thing.  But  the  writer 
and  speaker  have  to  do  things  essentially  different.  Besides 
habit,  and  greater  or  less  facility,  there  is  also  a  certain  reach  of 
capacity,  a  certain  depth  or  shallowness,  grossness  or  refinement 
of  intellect,  which  marks  out  the  distinction  between  those  whose 
chief  ambition  is  to  shine  by  producing  an  immediate  effect,  or 
who  are  thrown  back,  by  a  natural  bias,  on  the  severer  researches 
of  thought  and  study. 

We  see  persons  of  that  standard  or  texture  of  mind  that  they 
can  do  nothing,  but  on  the  spur  of  the  occasion  :  if  they  have  time 
to  deliberate,  they  are  lost.  There  are  others  who  have  no 
resource,  who  cannot  advance  a  step  by  any  efforts  or  assistance, 
beyond  a  successful  arrangement  of  common-places :  but  these 
they  have  always  at  command,  at  everybody's  service.     There 

is  F ;  meet  him  where  you  will  in  the  street,  he  has  his 

topic  ready  to  discharge  in  the  same  breath  with  the  customary 
forms  of  salutation  ;  he  is  hand  and  glove  with  it ;  on  it  goes  and 
off,  and  he  manages  it  like  Wart  his  caliver. 

Hear  him  but  reason  in  divinity, 
And,  all-admiring,  with  an  inward  wish 
You  wou?d  desire  that  he  were  made  a  prelate. 
Let  him  but  talk  of  any  state-affair, 
You'd  say  it  had  been  all  in  all  his  study. 
Turn  him  to  any  cause  of  policy, 
25 


172  TABLE  TALK. 


The  Gordian  knot  of  it  he  will  unloose, 
Familiar  as  his  garter.     When  he  speaks, 
The  air,  a  charter'd  libertine,  stands  still — 

but,  ere  you  have  time  to  answer  him,  he  is  off  like  a  shot,  to 
repeat  the  same  rounded,  fluent  observations  to  others : — a  perfect 
master  of  the  sentences,  a  walking  polemic  wound  up  for  the  day, 
a  smartly  bound  political  pocket-book !  Set  the  same  person  to 
write  a  common  paragraph,  and  he  cannot  get  through  it  for  very 
weariness  :  ask  him  a  question,  ever  so  little  out  of  the  common 
road,  and  he  stares  you  in  the  face.  What  does  all  this  bustle, 
animation,  plausibility,  and  command  of  words  amount  to  ?  A 
lively  flow  of  animal  spirits,  a  good  deal  of  confidence,  a  commu- 
nicative turn,  and  a  tolerably  tenacious  memory  with  respect  to 
floating  opinions  and  current  phrases.  Beyond  the  routine  of  the 
daily  newspapers  and  coffee-house  criticism,  such  persons  do  not 
venture  to  think  at  all :  or  if  they  did,  it  would  be  so  much  the 
worse  for  them,  for  they  would  only  be  perplexed  in  the  attempt,  and 
would  perform  their  part  in  the  mechanism  of  society  with  so 
much  the  less  alacrity  and  easy  volubility. 

The  most  dashing  orator  I  ever  heard  is  the  flattest  writer  I 
ever  read.  In  speaking,  he  was  like  a  volcano  vomiting  out  lava  ; 
in  writing,  he  is  like  a  volcano  burnt  out.  Nothing  but  the 
dry  cinders,  the  hard  shell  remains.  The  tongues  of  flame,  with 
which,  in  haranguing  a  mixed  assembly,  he  used  to  illuminate 
his  subject,  and  almost  scorched  up  the  panting  air,  do  not  appear 
painted  on  the  margin  of  his  works.  He  was  the  model  of  a 
flashy,  powerful  demagogue — a  madman  blest  with  a  fit  audience. 
He  was  possessed,  infuriated  with  the  patriotic  mania  ;  he  seemed 
to  rend  and  tear  the  rotten  carcase  of  corruption  with  the  remorse- 
less, indecent  rage  of  a  wild  beast :  he  mourned  over  the  bleeding 
body  of  his  country,  like  another  Antony  over  the  dead  body  of 
Caesar,  as  if  he  would  "  move  the  very  stones  of  Rome  to  rise  and 
mutiny  :"  he  pointed  to  the  "  Persian  abodes,  the  glittering  temples" 
of  oppression  and  luxury,  with  prophetic  exultation  ;  and,  like 
another  Helen,  had  almost  fired  another  Troy  !  The  lightning  of 
national  indignation  flashed  from  his  eye ;  the  workings  of  the 
popular  mind  were  seen  laboring  in  his  bosom :  it  writhed  and 
swelled  with  its  rank  "  fraught  of  aspics'  tongues,"  and  the  poison 


THE  DIFFERENCE  BETWEEN  WRITING  AND  SPEAKING.   173 

frothed  over  at  his  lips.  Thus  qualified,  he  "  wielded  at  will  the 
fierce  democracy,  and  fulmin'd  over "  an  area  of  souls,  of  no 
mean  circumference.  He  who  might  be  said  to  have  "  roared 
you  in  the  ears  of  the  groundlings  an  'twere  any  lion,  aggravates 
his  voice  "  on  paper,  "  like  any  sucking-dove."  It  is  not  merely 
that  the  same  individual  cannot  sit  down  quietly  in  his  closet,  and 
produce  the  same,  or  a  correspondent  effect — that  what  he  delivers 
over  to  the  compositor  is  tame,  and  trite,  and  tedious — that  he 
cannot  by  any  means,  as  it  were,  "  create  a  soul  under  the  ribs 
of  death  " — but  sit  down  yourself,  and  read  one  of  these  very 
popular  and  electrical  effusions  (for  they  have  been  published) 
and  you  would  not  believe  it  to  be  the  same  !  The  thunder-and- 
lightning  mixture  of  the  orator  turns  out  a  mere  drab-colored  suit 
in  the  person  of  the  prose-writer.  We  wonder  at  the  change, 
and  think  there  must  be  some  mistake,  some  leger-de-main  trick 
played  off"  upon  us,  by  which  what  before  appeared  so  fine  now 
appears  to  be  so  worthless.  The  deception  took  place  before  ; 
now  it  is  removed.  "Bottom!  thou  art  translated!"  might  be 
placed  as  a  motto  under  most  collections  of  printed  speeches  that 
I  have  had  the  good  fortune  to  meet  with,  whether  originally 
addressed  to  the  people,  the  senate,  or  the  bar.  Burke's  and 
Windham's  form  an  exception  :  Mr.  Coleridge's  Condones  ad 
Populum  do  not,  any  more  than  Mr.  Thelwall's  Tribune.  What 
we  read  is  the  same :  what  we  hear  and  see  is  different — "  the 
self-same  words,  but  not  to  the  self-same  tune."  The  orator's 
vehemence  of  gesture,  the  loudness  of  the  voice,  the  speaking  eye, 
the  conscious  attitude,  the  inexplicable  dumb  show  and  noise, — 
all  "  those  brave  sublunary  things  that  made  his  raptures  clear," 
— are  no  longer  there,  and  without  these  he  is  nothing  ; — his 
"  fire  and  air  "  turn  to  puddle  and  ditch-water,  and  the  God  of 
eloquence  and  of  our  idolatry  sinks  into  a  common  mortal,  or  an 
image  of  lead,  with  a  few  labels,  nicknames,  and  party  watch- 
words stuck  in  his  mouth.  The  truth  is,  that  these  always  made 
up  the  stock  of  his  intellectual  wealth ;  but  a  certain  exaggera- 
tion and  extravagance  of  manner  covered  the  nakedness,  and 
swelled  out  the  emptiness  of  the  matter  :  the  sympathy  of  angry 
multitudes  with  an  impassioned  theatrical  declaimer  supplied  the 
place  of  argument  or  wit ;  while  the  physical  animation  and 


174  TABLE  TALK. 


ardor  of  the  speaker  evaporated  in  "  sound  and  fury,  signifying 
nothing,"  and  leaving  no  trace  behind  it.  A  popular  speaker 
(such  as  I  have  been  here  describing)  is  like  a  vulgar  actor  off 
the  stage — take  away  his  cue,  and  he  has  nothing  to  say  for  him- 
self. Or  he  is  so  accustomed  to  the  intoxication  of  popular 
applause,  that  without  that  stimulus  he  has  no  motive  or  power  of 
exertion  left — neither  imagination,  understanding,  liveliness,  com- 
mon sense,  words  nor  ideas — he  is  fairly  cleared  out ;  and  in  the 
intervals  of  sober  reason,  is  the  dullest  and  most  imbecile  of  all 
mortals. 

An  orator  can  hardly  get  beyond  comtnon-phces  :  if  he  does,  he 
gets  beyond  his  hearers.  The  most  successful  speakers,  even  in 
the  House  of  Commons,  have  not  been  the  best  scholars  or  the 
finest  writers — neither  those  who  took  the  most  profound  views  of 
their  subject,  nor  who  adorned  it  with  the  most  original  fancy,  or 
the  richest  combinations  of  language.  Those  speeches  that  in 
general  told  best  at  the  time,  are  not  now  readable.  What  were  the 
materials  of  which  they  were  chiefly  composed  ?  An  imposing 
detail  of  passing  events,  a  formal  display  of  official  documents,  an 
appeal  to  established  maxims,  an  echo  of  popular  clamor,  some 
worn-out  metaphor  newly  vamped-up, — some  hackneyed  argu- 
ment used  for  the  hundredth,  nay  thousandth  time,  to  fall  in  with 
the  interests,  the  passions,  or  prejudices  of  listening  and 
devoted  admirers ; — some  truth  or  falsehood,  repeated  as  the 
Shibboleth  of  party  time  out  of  mind,  which  gathers  strength  from 
sympathy  as  it  spreads,  because  it  is  understood  or  assented  to  by 
the  million,  and  finds,  in  the  increased  action  of  the  minds  of 
numbers,  the  weight  and  force  of  an  instinct.  A  common-place 
does  not  leave  the  mind  "  sceptical,  puzzled,  and  undecided  in  the 
moment  of  action  :" — "  it  gives  a  body  to  opinion,  and  a  perma- 
nence to  fugitive  belief."  It  operates  mechanically,  and  open 
an  instantaneous  and  infallible  communication  between  the  hear 
er  and  speaker.  A  set  of  cant  phrases,  arranged  in  sounding 
sentences,  and  pronounced  "  with  good  emphasis  and  discretion," 
keep  the  gross  and  irritable  humors  of  an  audience  in  constant 
fermentation  ;  and  levy  no  tax  on  the  understanding.  To  give  a 
reason  for  anything  is  to  breed  a  doubt  of  it,  which  doubt  you 
may  not  remove  in  the  sequel ;  either  because  your  reason  may 


THE  DIFFERENCE  BETWEEN  WRITING  AND  SPEAKING.  175 

not  be  a  good  one,  or  because  the  person  to  whom  it  is  addressed 
may  not  be  able  to  comprehend  it,  or  because  others  may  not  be 
able  to  comprehend  it.  He  who  offers  to  go  into  the  grounds  of 
an  acknowledged  axiom,  risks  the  unanimity  of  the  company 
"  by  most  admired  disorder,"  as  he  who  digs  to  the  foundation  of 
a  building  to  show  its  solidity,  risks  its  falling.  But  a  common- 
place is  enshrined  in  its  own  unquestioned  evidence,  and  consti- 
tutes its  own  immortal  basis.  Nature,  it  has  been  said,  abhors  a 
vacuum  :  and  the  House  of  Commons,  it  might  be  said,  hates 
everything  but  a  common-place  ! — Mr.  Burke  did  not  often  shock 
the  prejudices  of  the  House  :  he  endeavored  to  account  for  them, 
to  "  lay  the  flattering  unction"  of  philosophy  "  to  their  souls." 
They  could  not  endure  him.  Yet  he  did  not  attempt  this  by  dry 
argument  alone  ;  he  called  to  his  aid  the  flowers  of  poetical  fic- 
tion, and  strewed  the  most  dazzling  colors  of  language  over  the 
Standing  Orders  of  the  House.  It  was  a  double  offence  to  them 
— an  aggravation  of  the  encroachments  of  his  genius.  They 
would  rather  "  hear  a  cat  mew  or  an  axle-tree  grate,"  than  hear 
a  man  talk  philosophy  by  the  hour — 

Not  harsh  and  crabbed,  as  dull  fools  suppose, 
But  musical  as  is  Apollo's  lute, 
And  a  perpetual  feast  of  nectar'd  sweets, 
Where  no  crude  surfeit  reigns. 

He  was  emphatically  called  the  Dinner-Bell.  They  went  out  by 
shoals  when  he  began  to  speak.  They  coughed  and  shuffled  him 
down.  While  he  was  uttering  some  of  the  finest  observations  (to 
speak  in  compass)  that  ever  were  delivered  in  that  House,  they 
walked  out,  not  as  the  beasts  came  out  of  the  ark,  by  twos  and  by 
threes,  but  in  droves  and  companies  of  tens,  of  dozens,  and  scores  ! 
Oh  !  it  is  "  the  heaviest  stone  which  melancholy  can  throw  at  a 
man,"  when  you  are  in  the  middle  of  a  delicate  speculation  to  see 
"  a  robustious,  periwig-pated  fellow"  deliberately  take  up  his  hat 
and  walk  out.  But  what  effect  could  Burke's  finest  observations 
be  expected  to  have  on  the  House  of  Commons  in  their  corporate 
capacity  ?  On  the  supposition  that  they  were  original,  refined, 
comprehensive,  his  auditors  had  never  heard,  and  assuredly  they 
had  never  thought  of  them  before:  how  then  should  thev  know 


1-76  TABLE  TALK. 


that  they  were  good  or  bad,  till  they  had  time  to  consider  better 
of  it,  or  till  they  were  told  what  to  think  ?  In  the  mean  time, 
their  effect  would  be  to  stop  the  question  :  they  were  blanks  in  the 
debate :  they  could  at  best  only  be  laid  aside  and  left  ad  referen- 
dum. What  would  it  signify  if  four  or  five  persons,  at  the  utmost, 
felt  their  full  force  and  fascinating  power  the  instant  they  were 
delivered  1  They  would  be  utterly  unintelligible  to  nine-tenths 
of  the  persons  present,  and  their  impression  upon  any  particular 
individual,  more  knowing  than  the  rest,  would  be  involuntarily 
paralysed  by  the  torpedo  touch  of  the  elbow  of  a  country  gentleman 
or  city-orator.  There  is  a  reaction  in  insensibility  as  well  as  in 
enthusiasm ;  and  men  in  society  judge  not  by  their  own  convic- 
tions, but  by  sympathy  with  others.  In  reading,  we  may  go  over 
the  page  again,  whenever  anything  new  or  questionable  "  gives 
us  pause :"  besides,  we  are  by  ourselves,  and  it  is  a  word  to  the 
wise.  We  are  not  afraid  of  understanding  too  much,  and  being 
called  upon  to  unriddle.  In  hearing  we  are  (saving  the  mark  !) 
in  the  company  of  fools  ;  and  time  presses.  Was  the  debate  to 
be  suspended  while  Mr.  Fox  or  Mr.  Windham  took  this  or  that 
Honorable  Member  aside,  to  explain  to  them  that  fine  observation 
of  Mr.  Burke's,  and  to  watch  over  the  new  birth  of  their  under- 
standings,  the  dawn  of  this  new  light !  If  we  were  to  wait  till 
Noble  Lords  and  Honorable  Gentlemen  were  inspired  with  a  relish 
for  abstruse  thinking,  and  a  taste  for  the  loftier  flights  of  fancy, 
the  business  of  this  great  nation  would  shortly  be  at  a  stand. 
No :  it  is  too  much  to  ask  that  our  good  things  should  be  duly 
appreciated  by  the  first  person  we  meet,  or  in  the  next  minute 
after  their  disclosure ;  if  the  world  are  a  little,  a  very  little,  the 
wiser  or  better  for  them  a  century  hence,  it  is  full  as  much  as 
can  be  modestly  expected  ! — The  impression  of  anything  delivered 
in  a  large  assembly  must  be  comparatively  null  and  void,  unless 
you  not  only  understand  and  feel  its  value  yourself,  but  are  con- 
scious that  it  is  felt  and  understood  by  the  meanest  capacity  pre- 
sent. Till  that  is  the  case,  the  speaker  is  in  your  power,  not  you 
in  his.  The  eloquence  that  is  effectual  and  irresistible  must  stir 
the  inert  mass  of  prejudice,  and  pierce  the  opaquest  shadows  of 
ignorance.  Corporate  bodies  move  slow  in  the  progress  of  intel- 
lect for  this  reason,  that  they  must  keep  back,  like  convoys,  foi 


THE  DIFFERENCE  BETWEEN  WRITING  AND  SPEAKING.  177 

.nil  heaviest  sailing  vessels  under  their  charge.  The  sinews  of 
the  wisest  councils  are,  after  all,  impudence  and  interest :  the 
most  enlightened  bodies  are  often  but  slaves  of  the  weakest  intel- 
lects they  reckon  among  them,  and  the  best-intentioned  are  but 
tools  of  the  greatest  hypocrites  and  knaves. — To  conclude  what  I 
had  to  say  on  the  character  of  Mr.  Burke's  parliamentary  style, 
I  will  just  give  an  instance  of  what  I  mean  in  affirming  that  it 
was  too  recondite  for  his  hearers ;  and  it  shall  be  even  in  so 
obvious  a  thing  as  a  quotation.  Speaking  of  the  new  fangled 
French  Constitution,  and  in  particular  of  the  King  (Louis  XVI.) 
as  the  chief  power  in  form  and  appearance  only,  he  repeated  the 
famous  lines  in  Milton  describing  Death,  and  concluded  with 
peculiar  emphasis, 

What  seem' d.  its  head, 

The  likeness  of  a  kingly  crown  had  on. 

The  person  who  heard  him  make  the  speech  said,  that,  if  ever 
a  poet's  language  had  been  finely  applied  by  an  orator  to  express 
his  thoughts  and  make  out  his  purpose,  it  was  in  this  instance. 
The  passage,  I  believe,  is  not  in  his  reported  speeches  ;  and  I 
should  think,  in  all  likelihood,  it  "  fell  still-born"  from  his  lips  ; 
while  one  of  Mr.  Canning's  well-thumbed  quotations  out  of  Virgil 
would  electrify  the  Treasury  Benches,  and  be  echoed  by  all  the 
politicians  of  his  own  standing,  and  the  tyros  of  his  own  school, 
from  Lord  Liverpool  in  the  Upper  down  to  Mr.  William  Ward  in 
the  Lower  House. 

Mr.  Burke  was  an  author  before  he  was  a  Member  of  Parlia- 
ment :  he  ascended  to  that  practical  eminence  from  "  the  plat- 
form" of  his  literary  pursuits.  He  walked  out  of  his  study  into 
the  House.  But  he  never  became  a  thorough-.bred  debater.  He 
was  not  "  native  to  that  element,"  nor  was  he  ever  "  subdued  to 
the  quality"  of  that  motley  crew  of  knights,  citizens,  and  bur- 
gesses. The  late  Lord  Chatham  was  made  for,  and  by  it.  He 
seemed  to  vault  into  his  seat  there,  like  Hotspur,  with  the  excla- 
mation in  his  mouth — "  that  Roan  shall  be  my  throne."  Or  he 
sprang  out  of  the  genius  of  the  House  of  Commons,  like  Pallas 
from  the  head  of  Jupiter,  completely  armed.  He  assumed  an 
ascendency  there  from  the  very  port  and  stature  of  his  mind— 

SECOND    SERIES — PART  I.  25 


J  78  TABLE  TALK. 


from  his  aspiring  and  fiery  temperament-  He  vanquished,  be- 
cause  he  could  not  yield.  He  controlled  the  purposes  of  others, 
because  he  was  strong  in  his  own  obdurate  self-will.  He  convinced 
his  followers,  by  never  doubting  himself.  He  did  not  argue,  but 
assert ;  he  took  what  he  chose  for  granted,  instead  of  making  a 
question  of  it.  He  was  not  a  dealer  in  moot-points.  He  seized 
on  some  strong-hold  in  the  argument,  and  held  it  fast  with  a  con- 
vulsive grasp — or  wrested  the  weapons  out  of  his  adversaries' 
hands  by  main  force.  Hl  entered  the  lists  like  a  gladiator.  He 
made  political  controversy  a  combat  of  personal  skill  and  courage. 
He  was  not  for  wasting  time  in  long-winded  discussions  with  his 
opponents,  but  tried  to  disarm  them  by  a  word,  by  a  glance  of  his 
eye,  so  that  they  should  not  dare  to  contradict  or  confront  him 
again.  He  did  not  wheedle,  or  palliate,  or  circumvent,  or  make 
a  studied  appeal  to  the  reason  or  the  passions — he  dictated  his 
opinions  to  the  House  of  Commons.  "  He  spoke  as  one  having 
authority,  and  not  as  the  Scribes." — But  if  he  did  not  produce 
such  an  effect  either  by  reason  or  imagination,  how  did  he  pro- 
duce  it  ?  The  principle  by  which  he  exerted  his  influence  over 
others  (and  it  is  a  principle  of  which  some  speakers  that  I  might 
mention  seem  not  to  have  an  idea,  even  in  possibility)  was  sym. 
pathy.  He  himself  evidently  had  a  strong  possession  of  his  sub- 
ject, a  thorough  conviction,  an  intense  interest ;  and  this  commu- 
nicated  itself  from  his  manner,  from  the  tones  of  his  voice,  from 
his  commanding  attitudes,  and  eager  gestures,  instinctively  and 
unavoidably  to  his  hearers.  His  will  was  surcharged  with  elec- 
trical matter  like  a  Voltaic  battery ;  and  all  who  stood  within  its 
reach  felt  the  full  force  of  the  shock.  Zeal  wdl  do  more  than 
knowledge.  To  say  the  truth,  there  is  little  knowledge, — no 
ingenuity,  no  parade  of  individual  details,  not  much  attempt  at 
general  argument,  neither  wit  nor  fancy  in  his  speeches — but 
there  are  a  few  plain  truths  told  home  :  whatever  he  says,  he  does 
not  mince  the  matter,  but  clenches  it  in  the  most  unequivocal 
manner,  and  with  the  fullest  sense  of  its  importance,  in  clear, 
shorl,  pithy,  old  English  sentences.  The  most  obvious  things,  as 
he  puts  them,  read  like  axioms — so  that  he  appears,  as  it  were, 
the  genius  of  common  sense  personified ;  and  in  turning  to  his 
gpeeches  you  fancy  that  you  have  met  with  (at  least)  one  honest 


THE  DIFFERENCE  BETWEEN  WRITING  AND  SPEAKING.  179 

statesman  ! — Lord  Chatham  commenced  his  career  in  the  intrigues 
of  a  camp  and  the  bustle  of  a  mess-room ;  where  he  probably- 
learnt  that  the  way  to  govern  others,  is  to  make  your  will  your 
warrant,  and  your  word  a  law.  If  he  had  spent  the  early  part 
of  his  life,  like  Mr.  Burke,  in  writing  a  treatise  on  the  Sublime 
and  Beautiful,  and  in  dreaming  over  the  abstract  nature  and 
causes  of  things,  he  would  never  have  taken  the  lead  he  did  in 
the  British  Senate. 

Both  Mr.  Fox  and  Mr.  Pitt  (though  as  opposite  to  each  other 
as  possible)  were  essentially  speakers,  not  authors,  in  their  mode 
of  oratory.  Beyond  the  moment,  beyond  the  occasion,  beyond 
the  immediate  power  shown,  astonishing  as  that  was,  there  was 
little  remarkable  or  worth  preserving  in  their  speeches.  There 
is  no  thought  in  them  that  implies  a  habit  of  deep  and  refined 
reflection  (more  than  we  are  accustomed  ordinarily  to  find  in  peo- 
ple of  education)  ;  there  is  no  knowledge  that  does  not  lie  within 
the  reach  of  obvious  and  mechanical  search  ;  and  as  to  the  powers 
of  language,  the  chief  miracle  is,  that  a  source  of  words  so  apt, 
forcible,  and  well-arranged,  so  copious  and  unfailing,  should  have 
been  found  constantly  open  to  express  their  ideas  without  any  pre- 
vious preparation.  Considered  as  written  style,  they  are  not  far 
out  of  the  common  course  of  things ;  and  perhaps  it  is  assuming 
too  much,  and  making  the  wonder  greater  than  it  is,  with  a  very 
natural  love  of  indulging  our  admiration  of  extraordinary  persons, 
when  we  conceive  that  parliamentary  speeches  are  in  general 
delivered  without  any  previous  preparation.  They  do  not,  it  is 
true,  allow  of  preparation  at  the  moment,  but  they  have  the  pre- 
paration of  the  preceding  night,  and  of  the  night  before  that,  and 
of  nights,  weeks,  months,  and  years  of  the  same  endless  drudgery 
and  routine,  in  going  over  the- same  subjects,  argued  (with  some 
paltry  difference)  on  the  same  grounds.  Practice  makes  perfect. 
He  who  has  got  a  speech  by  heart  on  any  particular  occasion, 
cannot  be  much  gravelled  for  lack  of  matter  on  any  similar  occa- 
sion in  future.  Not  only  are  the  topics  the  same  ;  the  very  same 
phrases — whole  batches  of  them, — are  served  up  as  the  Order  of 
the  Day  ;  the  same  parliamentary  bead-roll  of  grave  impertinence 
is  twanged  off,  in  full  cadence,  by  the  Honorable  Member  or  his 
Ijearned  and  Honorable  Friend  ;  and  the  well-known,  voluminous, 

25* 


180  TABLE  TALK. 


calculable  periods  roll  over  the  drowsy  ears  of  the  auditors,  almost 
before  they  are  delivered  from  the  vapid  tongue  that  utters  them ! 
It  may  appear,  at  first  sight,  that  here  are  a  number  of  persons 
got  together,  picked  out  from  the  whole  nation,  who  can  speak  at 
all  times  upon  all  subjects  in  the  most  exemplary  manner ;  but 
the  fact  is,  they  only  repeat  the  same  things  over  and  over  on  the 
same  subjects, — and  they  obtain  credit  for  general  capacity  and 
ready  wit,  like  Chaucer's  Monk,  who,  by  having  three  words  of 
Latin  always  in  his  mouth,  passed  for  a  great  scholar. 

A  few  termes  coude  he,  two  or  three, 
That  he  had  learned  out  of  som  decree  ; 
No  wonder  is,  he  herd  it  all  the  day. 

Try  them  on  any  other  subject  out  of  doors,  and  see  how  soon 
the  extempore  wit  and  wisdom  "  will  halt  for  it."  See  how  few 
of  those  who  have  distinguished  themselves  in  the  House  of 
Commons  have  done  anything  out  of  it ;  how  few  that  have,  shine 
there  I  Read  'over  the  collections  of  old  Debates,  twenty,  forty, 
eighty,  a  hundred  years  ago  ;  they  are  the  same,  mutatis  mutandis, 
as  those  of  yesterday.  You  wonder  to  see  how  little  has  been 
added ;  you  grieve  that  so  little  has  been  lost.  Even  in  their 
own  favorite  topics,  how  much  are  they  to  seek  !  They  still  talk 
gravely  of  the  Sinking  Fund  in  St.  Stephen's  Chapel,  which  has 
been  for  some  time  exploded  as  a  juggle  by  Mr.  Place  of  Charing- 
Cross ;  and  a  few  of  the  principles  of  Adam  Smith,  which  every 
one  else  had  been  acquainted  with  long  since,  are  just  now  begin- 
ning to  dawn  on  the  collective  understanding  of  the  two  Houses 
of  Parliament.  Instead  of  an  exuberance  of  sumptuous  matter, 
you  have  the  same  meagre  standing  dishes  for  every  day  in  the 
year.  You  must  serve  an  apprenticeship  to  a  want  of  originality, 
to  a  suspension  of  thought  and  feeling.  You  are  in  a  go-cart  of 
prejudices,  in  a  regularly  constructed  machine  of  pretexts  and 
precedents ;  you  are  not  only  to  wear  the  livery  of  other  men's 
thoughts,  but  there  is  a  House-of-Commons  jargon  which  must 
be  used  for  everything.  A  man  of  simplicity  and  independence 
of  mind  cannot  easily  reconcile  himself  to  all  this  formality  and 
mummery  ;  yet  wo  to  him  that  shall  attempt  to  discard  it !  You 
can  no  more  move  against  the  stream  of  custom,  than  you  can  make 


THE  DIFFERENCE  BETWEEN  WRITING  AND  SPEAKING.  181 . 

head  against  a  crowd  of  people  ;  the  mob  of  lords  and  gentlemen 
will  not  let  you  speak  or  think  but  as  they  do.  You  are  hemmed 
in,  stifled,  pinioned,  pressed  to  death, — and  if  you  make  one  false 
step,  are  "  trampled  under  the  hoofs  of  a  swinish  multitude !" 
Talk  of  mobs  !  Is  there  any  body  of  people  that  has  this  charac- 
ter in  a  more  consummate  degree  than  the  House  of  Commons  ? 
Is  there  any  set  of  men  that  determines  more  by  acclamation,  and 
less  by  deliberation  and  individual  conviction  ?  That  is  moved 
more  en  masse,  in  its  aggregate  capacity,  as  brute  force  and  phy- 
sical number?  That  judges  with  more  Midas  ears,  blind  and 
sordid,  without  discrimination  of  right  and  wrong  ?  The  greatest 
test  of  courage  I  can  conceive,  is  to  speak  truth  in  the  House  of 
Commons.  I  have  heard  Sir  Francis  Burdett  say  things  there 
which  I  could  not  enough  admire ;  and  which  he  could  not  have 
ventured  upon  saying,  if,  besides  his  honesty,  he  had  not  been  a 
man  of  fortune,  of  family,  of  character, — aye,  and  a  very  good- 
looking  man  into  the  bargain  !  Dr.  Johnson  had  a  wish  to  try 
his  hand  in  the  House  of  Commons.  An  elephant  might  as  well 
have  been  introduced  there,  in  all  the  forms :  Sir  William  Curtis 
makes  a  better  figure.  Either  he  or  the  Speaker  (Onslow)  must 
have  resigned.  The  orbit  of  his  intellect  was  not  the  one  in 
which  the  intellect  of  the  house  moved  by  ancient  privilege.  His 
common-places  were  not  their  common-places. — Even  Home 
Tooke  failed,  with  all  his  tact,  his  self-possession,  his  ready  talent, 
and  his  long  practice  at  the  hustings.  He  had  weapons  of  his 
own,  with  which  he  wished  to  make  play,  and  did  not  lay  his 
hand  upon  the  established  levers  for  wielding  the  House  of  Com- 
mons. A  succession  of  dry,  sharp-pointed  sayings,  which  come 
in  excellently  well  in  the  pauses  or  quick  turns  of  conversation, 
do  not  make  a  speech.  A  series  of  drops  is  not  a  stream.  Be- 
sides, he  had  been  in  the  practice  of  rallying  his  guests  and 
tampering  witv  his  subject ;  and  this  ironical  tone  did  not  suit 
his  new  situation.  He  had  been  used  to  "  give  his  own  little 
Senate  laws,"  and  when  he  found  the  resistance  of  the  great  one 
more  than  he  could  manage,  he  shrank  back  from  the  attempt, 
disheartened  and  powerless.  It  is  nothing  that  a  man  can  talk 
(the  better,  the  worse  it  is  for  him)  unless  he  can  talk  in  trammels ; 
he  must  be  drilled  into  the  regiment ;  he  must  not  run  out  of  the 


lb'2  TABLE  TALK. 


course  !  The  worst  thing  a  man  can  do  is  to  set  up  for  a  wit  there 
— or  rather  (I  would  say)  for  a  humorist — to  say  odd  out-of-the- 
way  things,  to  ape  a  character,  to  play  the  clown  or  the  wag  in 
the  House.  This  is  the  very  forlorn  hope  of  a  parliamentary 
ambition.  They  may  tolerate  it  till  they  know  what  you  are  at, 
but  no  longer.  It  may  succeed  once  or  twice,  but  the  third  time 
you  will  be  sure  to  break  your  neck.  They  know  nothing  of  you, 
or  your  whims,  nor  have  they  time  to  look  at  a  puppet-show. 
"  They  look  only  at  the  stop-watch,  my  Lord  !"  We  have  seen 
a  very  lively  sally  of  this  sort  which  failed  lately.  The  House 
of  Commons  is  the  last  place  where  a  man  will  draw  admiration 
by  making  a  jest  of  his  own  character.  But  if  he  has  a  mind  to 
make  a  jest  of  humanity,  of  liberty,  and  of  common  sense  and 
decency,  he  will  succeed  well  enough ! 

The  only  person  who  ever  "  hit  the  House  between  wind  and 
water  "  in  this  way, — who  made  sport  for  the  Members,  and  kept 
his  own  dignity  (in  our  time  at  least),  was  Mr.  Windham.  He 
carried  on  the  traffic  in  parliamentary  conundrums  and  enigmas 
with  great  eclat  for  more  than  one  season.  He  mixed. up  a  vein 
of  characteristic  eccentricity  with  a  succession  of  far-fetched  and 
curious  speculations,  very  pleasantly.  Extremes  meet ;  and  Mr. 
Windham  overcame  the  obstinate  attachment  of  his  hearers  to 
fixed  opinions  by  the  force  of  paradoxes.  He  startled  his  bed-rid 
audience  effectually.  A  paradox  was  a  treat  to  them,  on  the 
score  of  novelty  at  least ;  "  the  sight  of  one,"  according  to  the 
Scotch  proverb,  "  was  good  for  sore  eyes."  So  Mr.  Windham 
humored  them  in  the  thing  for  once.  He  took  all  sorts  of  conr.- 
monly  received  doctrines  and  notions  (with  an  understood  reserve) 
— reversed  them,  and  set  up  a  fanciful  theory  of  his  own,  instead. 
The  changes  were  like  those  of  a  pantomime.  Ask  the  first  old 
woman  you  met  her  opinion  on  any  subject,  and  you  could  get  at 
the  statesman's  ;  for  he  would  be  just  the  contrary.  He  would  be 
wiser  than  the  old  woman  at  any  rate.  If  a  thing  had'  been 
thought  cruel,  he  would  prove  that  it  was  humane  :  if  barbarous, 
manly  ;  if  wise,  foolish  ;  if  sense,  nonsense.  His  creed  was  the 
antithesis  of  common  sense,  loyalty  excepted.  Economy  he  could 
turn  into  ridicule,  "  as  a  saving  of  cheese-parings  and  candle, 
ends;" — and  total  failure  was  with  him  "  negative  success."    He 


THE  DIFFERENCE  BETWEEN  WRITING  AND  SPEAKING.  193 

had  no  occasion,  for  thus  setting  up  for  original  thinking,  to 
inquire  into  the  truth  or  falsehood  of  any  proposition,  but  to  as- 
certain whether  it  was  currently  believed  in,  and  then  to  contra- 
dict it  point-blank.  He  made  the  vulgar  prejudices  of  others 
"  servile  ministers  "  to  his  own  solecisms.  It  was  not  easy  to  say 
whether  he  was  in  jest  or  earnest — but  he  contrived  to  hitch  his 
extravagances  into  the  midst  of  some  grave  debate  ;  the  House 
had  their  laugh  for  nothing ;  the  question  got  into  shape  again, 
and  Mr.  Windham  was  allowed  te  have  been  more  brilliant  than 
ever.* 

Mr.  Windham  was,  I  have  heard,  a  silent  man  in  company. 
Indeed  his  whole  style  was  an  artificial  and  studied  imitation,  or 
capricious  caricature  of  Burke's  bold,  natural,  discursive  manner. 
This  did  not  imply  much  spontaneous  power  or  fertility  of  inven- 
tion ;  he  was  an  intellectual  posture-master,  rather  than  a  man 
of  real  elasticity  and  vigor  of  mind.  Mr.  Pitt  was  also,  I  believe, 
somewhat  taciturn  and  reserved.  There  was  nothing  clearly  in  the 
subject-matter  of  his  speeches  to  connect  with  the  ordinary  topics 
of  discourse,  or  with  any  given  aspect  of  human  life.  One  would 
expect  him  to  be  quite  as  much  in  the  clouds  as  the  automaton 
chess-player,  or  the  last  new  Opera-singer.  Mr.  Fox  said  little 
in  private,  and  complained  that  in  writing  he  had  no  style.  So 
(to  compare  great  things  with  small)  Jack  Davies,  the  unrivalled 
racket-player,  never  said  anything  at  all  in  company,  and  was 
what  is  understood  by  a  modest  man.  When  the  racket  was  out 
of  his  hand,  his  occupation,  his  delight,  his  glory  (that  which  he 
excelled  all  mankind  in)  was  gone !  So  when  Mr.  Fox  had  no 
longer  to  keep  up  the  ball  of  debate,  with  the  floor  of  Saint 
Stephen's  for  a  stage,  and  the  world  for  spectators  of  the  game,  it 
is  hardly  to  be  wondered  at  that  he  felt  a  little  at  a  loss — without 
his  usual  train  of  subjects,  the  same  crowd  of  associations,  the 
same  spirit  of  competition,  or  stimulus  to  extraordinary  exertion. 

*  It  must  be  granted,  however,  that  there  was  something  piquant  and 
provoking  in  his  manner  of  "making  the  worse  appear  the  better  reason." 
In  keeping  off  the  ill  odor  of  a  bad  cause,  he  applied  hartshorn  and  burnt 
feathers  to  the  offended  sense ;  and  did  not,  like  Mr.  Canning,  treat  us  w:th 
the  faded  flowers  of  his  oratory,  like  the  faint  smell  of  a  perfumer's  shop, 
or  try  to  make  Government  "  love-locks  "  of  dead  men's  hair ! 


184  TABLE  TALK. 


The  excitement  of  leading  in  the  House  of  Commons  (which,  in 
addition  to  the  immediate  attention  and  applause  that  follows,  is  a 
sort  of  whispering  gallery  to  all  Europe)  must  act  upon  the  brain 
like  brandy  or  laudanum  upon  the  stomach  ;  and  must,  in  most 
cases,  produce  the  same  debilitating  effects  afterwards.  A  man's 
faculties  must  be  quite  exhausted,  his  virtue  gone  out  of  him. 
That  any  one  accustomed  all  his  life  to  the  tributary  roar  of  ap- 
plause from  the  great  council  of  the  nation,  should  think  of  diet- 
ing himself  with  the  prospect  of  posthumous  fame  as  an  author,  is 
like  offering  a  confirmed  dram-drinker  a  glass  of  fair  water  for 
his  morning's  draught.  Charles  Fox  is  not  to  be  blamed  for 
naving  written  an  indifferent  history  of  James  II.,  but  for  having 
written  a  history  at  all.  It  was  not  his  business  to  write  a  history 
— his  business  was  not  to  have  made  any  more  Coalitions  !  But  he 
found  writing  so  dull,  he  thought  it  better  to  be  a  colleague  of 
Lord  Grenville  !  He  did  not  want  style  (to  say  so  is  nonsense, 
because  the  style  of  his  speeches  was  just  and  fine) — he  wanted 
a  sounding-board  in  the  ear  of  posterity  to  try  his  periods  upon. 
If  he  had  gone  to  the  House  of  Commons  in  the  morning,  and  tried 
to  make  a  speech  fasting,  when  there  was  nobody  to  hear  him,  he 
might  have  been  equally  disconcerted  at  his  want  of  style.  The 
habit  of  speaking  is  the  habit  of  being  heard,  and  of  wanting  to 
be  heard  ;  the  habit  of  writing  is  the  habit  of  thinking  aloud,  but 
without  the  help  of  an  echo.  The  orator  sees  his  subject  in  the 
eager  looks  of  his  auditors ;  and  feels  doubly  conscious,  doubly 
impressed  with  it  in  the  glow  of  their  sympathy  ;  the  author  can 
only  look  for  encouragement  in  a  blank  piece  of  paper.  The 
orator  feels  the  impulse  of  popular  enthusiasm, 


like  proud  seas  under  him  : 

the  only  Pegasus  the  writer  has  to  boast,  is  the  hobby-horse  of  his 
own  thoughts  and  fancies.  How  is  he  to  get  on  then  ?  From 
the  lash  of  necessity.  We  accordingly  see  persons  of  rank  anj 
fortune  continually  volunteer  into  the  service  of  oratory — and  the 
State  ;  but  we  have  few  authors  who  are  not  paid  by  the  sheet  ! 
— I  myself  have  heard  Charles  Fox  engaged  in  familiar  conver- 
sation.    It  was  in  the  Louvre.     He  was  describing  the  pictures 


THE  DIFFERENCE  BETWEEN  WRITING  AND  SPEAKING.  18f 

to  two  persons  that  were  with  him.  He  spoke  rapidly,  but  very 
unaffectedly.  I  remember  his  saying — "  All  these  blues  anc 
greens  and  reds  are  the  Guercinos ;  you  may  know  them  by  the 
colors."  He  set  Opie  right  as  to  Domenichino's  Saint  Jerome. 
"  You  will  find,"  he  said,  "  though  you  may  not  be  struck  with 
it  at  first,  that  there  is  a  great  deal  of  truth  and  good  sense  in  that 
picture."  There  was  a  person  at  one  time  a  good  deal  with  Mr. 
Fox,  who,  when  the  opinion  of  the  latter  was  asked  on  any  sub- 
ject, very  frequently  interposed  to  give  the  answer.  This  sort  of 
tantalizing  interruption  was  ingeniously  enough  compared  by 
some  one,  to  walking  up  Ludgate-hill,  and  having  the  spire  of  St. 
Martin's  constantly  getting  in  your  way,  when  you  wish  to  see 
the  dome  of  St.  Paul's  ! — Burke,  it  is  said,  conversed  as  he  spoke 
in  public,  and  as  he  wrote.  He  was  communicative,  diffuse, 
magnificent.  "  What  is  the  use,"  said  Mr.  Fox  to  a  friend,  "  of 
Sheridan's  trying  to  swell  himself  out  in  this  manner,  like  the 
frog  in  the  fable  ?" — alluding  to  his  speech  on  Warren  Hastings's 
trial.  "  It  is  very  well  for  Burke  to  express  himself  in  that  figu- 
rative way.  It  is  natural  to  him  ;  he  talks  so  to  his  wife,  to  his 
servants,  to  his  children  ;  but  as  for  Sheridan,  he  either  never 
opens  his  mouth  at  all,  or  if  he  does,  it  is  to  utter  some  joke,  ft 
is  out  of  the  question  for  him  to  affect  these  Orientalisms."  Burke 
once  came  into  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds's  painting-room,  when  one  of 
his  pupils  was  sitting  for  one  of  the  sons  of  Count  Ugolino  ;  this 
gentleman  was  personally  introduced  to  him  ; — "  Ah  !  then,"  said 
Burke,  "  I  find  that  Mr.  N —  has  not  only  a  head  that  would  do 
fo»  Titian  to  paint,  but  is  himself  a  painter."  At  another  time, 
he  came  in  when  Goldsmith  was  there,  and  poured  forth  such  a 
torrent  of  violent  personal  abuse  against  the  King,  that  they  got 
to  high  words,  and  Goldsmith  threatened  to  leave  the  room  if  he 
did  not  desist.  Goldsmith  bore  testimony  to  his  powers  of  con- 
versation. Speaking  of  Johnson,  he  said,  "  Does  he  wind  into  a 
subject  like  a  serpent,  as  Burke  does  ?"  With  respect  to  his  faci- 
lity in  composition,  there  are  contradictory  accounts.  It  has  been 
stated  by  some,  that  he  wrote  out  a  plain*  sketch  first,  like  a  sort 
of  dead  coloring,  and  added  the  ornaments  and  tropes  afterwards. 
I  have  been  assured  by  a  person  who  had  the  best  means  of 
knowing,  that  the  Letter  to  a  Noble  Lord  (the  most  rapid,  impetu 


186  TABLE  TALK. 


ous,  glancing,  and  sportive  of  all  his  works)  was  printed  off,  and 
the  proof  sent  to  him :  and  that  it  was  returned  to  the  printing- 
office  with  so  many  alterations  and  passages  interlined,  that  the 
compositors  refused  to  correct  it  as  it  was — took  the  whole  matter 
in  pieces,  and  re-set  the  copy.  This  looks  like  elaboration  and 
after-thought.  It  was  also  one  of  Burke's  latest  compositions.*  A 
regularly  bred  speaker  would  have  made  up  his  mind  beforehand  ; 
but  Burke's  mind  being,  as  originally  constituted  and  by  its  first 
bias,  that  of  an  author,  never  became  set.  It  was  in  further 
search  and  progress.  It  had  an  internal  spring  left.  It  was  not 
tied  down  to  the  printer's  form.  It  could  still  project  itself  into 
new  beauties,  and  explore  strange  regions  from  the  unwearied 
impulse  of  its  own  delight  or  curiosity.  Perhaps  among  the 
passages  interlined,  in  this  case,  were  the  description  of  the  Duke 
of  Bedford,  as  "  the  Leviathan  among  all  the  creatures  of  the 
crown," — the  catalogue  raisonnee  of  the  Abbe  Sieyes's  pigeon- 
holes,— or  the  comparison  of  the  English  Monarchy  to  "  the  proud 
keep  of  Windsor,  with  its  double  belt  of  kindred  and  coeval 
towers-."  Were  these  to  be  given  up  ?  If  he  had  had  to  make 
nis  defence  of  his  pension  in  the  House  of  Lords,  they  would  not 
have  been  ready  in  time,  it  appears ;  and,  besides,  would  have 
been  too  difficult  of  execution  on  the  spot :  a  speaker  must  not  set 
his  heart  on  such  forbidden  fruit.  But  Mr.  Burke  was  an  author, 
and  the  press  did  not  "  shut  the  gates  of  genius  on  mankind."  A 
set  of  oratorical  flourishes,  indeed,  is  soon  exhausted,  and  is  gene- 
rally all  that  the  extempore  speaker  can  safely  aspire  to.  Not 
so  with  the  resources  of  art  or  nature,  which  are  inexhaustible, 
and  which  the  writer  has  time  to  seek  out,  to  embody,  and  to  fit 
into  shape  and  use,  if  he  has  the  strength,  the  courage,  and  patience 
to  do  so. 

There  is  then  a  certain  range  of  thought  and  expression  beyond 
the  regular  rhetorical  routine,  on  which  the  author,  to  vindicate 
his  title,  must  trench  somewhat  freely.  The  proof  that  this  is 
understood  to  be  so,  is,  that  what  is  called  an  oratorical  style  is 

*  Tom  Paine,  while  he  was  busy  about  any  of  his  works,  used  to  walk 
out,  compose  a  sentence  or  paragraph  in  his  head,  come  home  and  write  1 
down,  and  never  altered  it  afterwards  He  then  added  another,  and  so  on, 
till  the  whole  was  completed. 


THE  DIFFERENCE  BETWEEN  WRITING  AND  SPEAKING.  187 

exploded  from  all  good  writing  ;  that  we  immediately  lay  down  an 
article,  even  in  a  common  newspaper,  in  which  such  phrases 
occur  as  "  the  Angel  of  Reform,"  "  the  drooping  Genius  of 
Albion  ;"  and  that  a  very  brilliant  speech  at  a  loyal  dinner-party 
makes  a  very  flimsy,  insipid  pamphlet.  The  orator  has  to  get  up 
for  a  certain  occasion  a  striking  compilation  of  partial  topics, 
which,  "  to  leave  no  rubs  or  botches  in  the  work,"  must  be  pretty 
familiar!  as  well  as  palatable  to  his  hearers ;  and  in  doing  this,  he 
may  avail  himself  of  all  the  resources  of  an  artificial  memory. 
The  writer  must  be  original,  or  he  is  nothing.  He  is  not  to  take 
up  with  ready-made  goods ;  for  he  has  time  allowed  him  to  create 
his  own  materials,  to  make  novel  combinations  of  thought  and 
fancy,  to  contend  with  unforeseen  difficulties  of  style  and  execu- 
tion, while  we  look  on,  and  admire  the  growing  work  in  secret 
and  at  leisure.  There  is  a  degree  of  finishing  as  well  as  of  solid 
strength  in  writing,  which  is  not  to  be  got  at  every  day,  and  we 
can  wait  for  perfection.  The  author  owes  a  debt  to  truth  and 
nature  which  he  cannot  satisfy  at  sight,  but  he  has  pawned  his 
head  in  redeeming  it.  It  is  not  a  string  of  clap-traps  to  answer  a 
temporary  or  party-purpose, — violent,  vulgar,  and  illiberal, — but 
general  and  lasting  truth  that  we  require  at  his  hands.  We  go 
to  him  as  pupils,  not  as  partisans.  We  have  a  right  to  expect 
from  him  profounder  views  of  things  ;  finer  observations  ;  more 
ingenious  illustrations ;  happier  and  bolder  expressions.  He  is 
to  give  the  choice  and  picked  results  of  a  whole  life  of  study ; 
what  he  has  struck  out  in  his  most  felicitous  moods,  has  treasured 
up  with  most  pride,  has  labored  to  bring  to  light  with  most 
anxiety  and  confidence  of  success.  He  may  turn  a  period  in  his 
head  fifty  different  ways,  so  that  it  comes  out  smooth  and  round 
at  last.  He  may  have  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  simile,  and  it  may 
have  vanished  again  :  let  him  be  on  the  watch  for  it,  as  the  idle 
boy  watches  for  the  lurking-place  of  the  adder.  We  can  wait. 
He  is  not  satisfied  with  a  reason  he  has  offered  for  something :  let 
him  wait  till  he  finds  a  better  reason.  There  is  some  word,  some 
phrase,  some  idiom  that  expresses  a  particular  idea  better  than  any 
other,  but  he  cannot  for  the  life  of  him  recollect  it :  let  him  wait 
till  he  does.  Is  it  strange  that  among  twenty  thousand  words  in 
ihe  English  language,  the  one  of  all  others  that  he  most  needs 


188  TABLE  TALK. 


should  have  escaped  him  ?  There  are  more  things  in  nature  than 
there  are  words  in  the  English  language,  and  he  must  not  expect 
to  lay  rash  hands  on  them  all  at  once. 

Learn  to  write  slow :  all  other  graces 
Will  follow  in  their  proper  places. 

You  allow  a  writer  a  year  to  think  of  a  subject ;  he  should  not 
put  you  off  with  a  truism  at  last.  You  allow  him  a  year  more  to 
find  out  words  for  his  thoughts  ;  he  should  not  give  us  an  echo  of 
all  the  fine  things  that  have  been  said  a  hundred  times.*  All 
authors,  however,  are  not  so  squeamish ;  but  take  up  with  words 
and  ideas  as  they  find  them  delivered  down  to  them.  Happy  are 
they  who  write  Latin  verses  !  Who  copy  the  style  of  Dr.  John- 
son! Who  hold  up  the  phrase  of  ancient  Pistol !  They  do  not 
trouble  themselves  with  those  hair-breadth  distinctions  of  thought 
or  meaning  that  puzzle  nicer  heads — let  us  leave  them  to  their 
repose  !  A  person  in  habits  of  composition  often  hesitates  in  con- 
versation  for  a  particular  word  :  it  is  because  he  is  in  search  of 
the  best  word,  and  that  he  cannot  hit  upon.  In  writing  he  would 
stop  till  it  came."]"  It  is  not  true,  however,  that  the  scholar  could 
avail  himself  of  a  more  ordinary  word  if  he  chose,  or  readily 
acquire  a  command  of  ordinary  language  ;  for  his  associations 
are  habitually  intense,  not  vague  and  shallow ;  and  words  occur 
to  him  only  as  tallies  to  certain  modifications  of  feeling.  They 
are  links  in  the  chain  of  thought.  His  imagination  is  fastidious, 
and  rejects  all  those  that  are  "  of  no  mark  or  likelihood."  Cer- 
tain words  are  in  his  mind  indissolubly  wedded  to  certain  things ; 
and  none  are  admitted  at  the  levee  of  his  thoughts,  but  those  of 
which  the  banns  have  been  solemnized  with  scrupulous  propriety. 
Again,  the  student  finds  a  stimulus  to  literary  exertion,  not  in  the 
immediate  eclat  of  his  undertaking,  but  in  the  difficulty  of  his 
subject,  and  the  progressive  nature  of  his  task.     He  is  not  wound 

*  Just  as  a  poet  ought  not  to  cheat  us  with  lame  metre  and  defective 
rhymes,  which  might  be  excusable  in  an  improvisatori  versifier. 

f  That  is  essentially  a  bad  style  which  seems  as  if  the  person  writing  it 
never  stopped  for  breath,  nor  gave  himself  a  moment's  pause,  but  strove  to 
make  up  by  redurdancy  and  fluency  for  want  of  choice  and  correctness  of 
expression 


THE  DIFFERENCE  BETWEEN  WRITING  AND  SPEAKING.  189 

up  to  a  sudden  and  extraordinary  effort  of  presence  of  mind  ;  but 
is  for  ever  awake  to  the  silent  influxes  of  things,  and  his  life  is  one 
long  labor.  Are  there  no  sweeteners  of  his  toil  ?  No  reflections, 
in  the  absence  ol  popular  applause  or  social  indulgence,  to  cheer 
him  on  his  way  ?  Let  the  reader  judge.  His  pleasure  is  the 
counterpart  of,  and  borrowed  from  the  same  source  as  the 
writer's.  A  man  does  not  read  out  of  vanity,  nor  in  company, 
but  to  amuse  his  own  thoughts.  If  the  reader,  from  disinterested 
and  merely  intellectual  motives,  relishes  an  author's  "  fancies 
and  good  nights,"  the  last  may  be  supposed  to  have  relished  them 
no  less.  If  he  laughs  at  a  joke,  the  inventor  chuckled  over  it  to 
the  full  as  much.  If  he  is  delighted  with  a  phrase,  he  may  be 
sure  the  writer  jumped  at  it ;  if  he  is  pleased  to  cull  a  straggling 
flower  from  the  page,  he  may  believe  that  it  was  plucked  with  no 
less  fondness  from  the  face  of  nature.  Does  he  fasten,  with 
gathering  brow  and  looks  intent,  on  some  difficult  speculation  ? 
He  may  be  convinced  that  the  writer  thought  it  a  fine  thing  to 
split  his  brain  in  solving  so  curious  a  problem,  and  to  publish  his 
discovery  to  the  world.  There  is  some  satisfaction  in  the 
contemplation  of  power ;  there  is  also  a  little  pride  in  the  con- 
scious possession  of  it.  With  what  pleasure  do  we  read  books ! 
If  authors  could  but  feel  this,  or  remember  what  they  themselves 
once  felt,  they  would  need  no  other,  temptation  to  persevere. 

To  conclude  this  account  with  what  perhaps  I  ought  to  have 
set  out  with,  a  definition  of  the  character  of  an  author.  There 
are  persons  who,  in  society,  in  public  intercourse,  feel  no  excite- 
ment, 

"  Dull  as  the  lake  that  slumbers  in  the  storm," 

but  who,  when  left  alone,  can  lash  themselves  into  a  foam.  The} 
are  never  less  alone  than  when  alone.  Mount  them  on  a  dinner- 
table,  and  they  have  nothing  to  say  ;  shut  them  up  jn  a  room  by 
themselves,  and  they  are  inspired.  They  are  "  made  fierce  with 
dark  keeping."  In  revenge  for  being  tongue-tied,  a  torrent  of 
words  flows  from  their  pens,  and  the  storm  which  was  so  long 
collecting  comes  down  apace.  It  never  rains  but  it  pours. 
Is  not  this  strange,  unaccountable  ?     Not  at  all  so.     They  have 


190  TABLE  1ALK. 


a  real  interest,  a  real  knowledge  of  the  subject,  and  they  cannot 
summon  up  all  that  interest,  or  bring  all  that  knowledge  to  bear, 
while  they  have  anything  else  to  attend  to.  Till  they  can 
do  justice  to  the  feeling  they  have,  they  can  do  nothing.  For 
this  they  look  into  their  own  minds,  not  in  the  faces  of  a  gaping 
multitude.  What  they  would  say  (if  they  could)  does  not  lie  at 
the  orifices  of  the  mouth  ready  for  delivery,  but  is  wrapped  in  the 
folds  of  the  heart  and  registered  in  the  chambers  of  the  brain.  In 
the  sacred  cause  of  truth  that  stirs  them,  they  would  put  their 
whole  strength,  their  whole  being  into  requisition  ;  and  as  it 
implies  a  greater  effort  to  drag  their  words  and  ideas  from  their 
lurking-places,  so  there  is  no  end  when  they  are  once  set 
in  motion.  The  whole  of  a  man's  thoughts  and  feelings  cannot 
lie  on  the  surface,  made  up  for  use  ;  but  the  whole  must  be 
a  greater  quantity,  a  mightier  power,  if  they  could  be  got  at, 
layer  under  layer,  and  brought  into  play  by  the  levers  of 
imagination  and  reflection.  Such  a  person  then  sees  further  and 
feels  deeper  than  most  others.  He  plucks  up  an  argument  by  the 
roots,  he  tears  out  the  very  heart  of  his  subjec*.  He  has  more 
pride  in  conquering  the  difficulties  of  a  question,  than  vanity  in 
courting  the  favor  of  an  audience.  He  wishes  to  satisfy  himself 
before  he  pretends  to  enlighten  the  public.  He  takes  an  interest 
in  things  in  the  abstract  more  than  by  common  consent.  Nature 
is  his  mistress,  truth  his  idol.  The  contemplation  of  a  pure  idea 
is  the  ruling  passion  of  his  breast.  The  intervention  of  other 
people's  notions,  the  being  the  immediate  object  of  their  censure 
or  their  praise,  puts  him  out.  What  will  tell,  what  will  produce 
an  effect,  he  cares  little  about ;  and  therefore  he  produces 
the  greatest.  The  personal  is  to  him  an  impertinence ;  so  he 
conceals  himself  and  writes.  Solitude  "  becomes  his  glittering 
bride,  and  airy  thoughts  his  children."  Such  a  one  is  a  true 
author ;  and  not  a  member  of  any  Debating  Club,  or  Dilettanti 
Society  whatever  !* 

*  I  have  omitted  to  dwell  on  some  other  differences  of  body  and  mind 
that  often  prevent  the  same  person  from  shining  in  both  capacities  of 
speaker  and  writer.  There  are  natural  impediments  to  public  speaking 
such  as  the  want  of  a  strong  voice  and  steady  nerves.  A  high  authority  of 
the  present  day  (Mr.  Canning)  has  thought  this  a  matter  of  so  much  import 


THE  DIFFERENCE  BETWEEN  WRITING  AND  SPEAKING.  191 


ance,  that  he  goes  so  far  as  even  to  let  it  affect  the  constitution  of  Parlia- 
ment, and  conceives  that  gentlemen  who  have  not  bold  foreheads  and 
brazen  lungs,  but  modest  pretensions  and  patriotic  views,  should  be  allowed 
to  creep  into  the  great  assembly  of  *hi:  nation  through  the  avenue  of  close 
boroughs,  and  not  be  called  upon  "  4o  face  the  storms  of  the  hustings."  In 
this  point  of  view,  Stentor  was  a  man  of  genius,  and  a  noisy  jack-pudding 
may  cut  a  considerable  figure  in  the  "  Political  House  that  Jack  r»\ilt."  I 
fancy  Mr.  C.  Wynne  is  the  only  person  in  the  kingdom  who  nas  i*ai'v  made 
up  his  mind  that  a  total  defect  of  voice  is  the  most  necessary  qualification 
for  a  Speaker  of  the  House  of  Commons : 


19»  TABLE  TALK. 


ESSAY  XV. 

On  certain  inconsistencies  in  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds'  discourses. 

The  two  chief  points  which  Sir  Joshua  aims  at  in  his  Discourses 
are  to  show  that  excellence  in  the  Fine  Arts  is  the  result  of  pains 
and  study,  rather  than  of  genius,  and  that  all  beauty,  grace,  and 
grandeur  are  to  be  found,  not  in  actual  nature,  but  in  an  idea 
existing  in  the  mind.  On  both  these  points  he  appears  to  have 
fallen  into  considerable  inconsistencies,  or  very  great  latitude  of 
expression,  so  as  to  make  it  difficult  to  know  what  conclusion  to 
draw  from  his  various  reasonings.  I  shall  attempt  little  more  in 
this  Essay  than  to  bring  together  several  passages,  that  from  their 
contradictory  import  seem  to  imply  some  radical  defect  in  Sir 
Joshua's  theory,  and  a  doubt  as  to  the  possibility  of  placing  an 
implicit  reliance  on  his  authority. 

To  begin  with  the  first  of  these  subjects,  the  question  of  original 
genius.  In  the  -Second  Discourse,  On  the  Method  of  Study,  Sir 
Joshua  observes  towards  the  end, 

"  There  is  one  precept,  however,  in  which  I  shall  only  be 
opposed  by  the  vain,  the  ignorant,  and  the  idle.  I  am  not  afraid 
ihat  I  shall  repeat  it  too  often.  You  must  have  no  dependence  on 
your  own  genius.  If  you  have  great  talents,  industry  will  im- 
prove them :  if  you  have  but  moderate  abilities,  industry  will  sup- 
ply their  deficiency.  Nothing  is  denied  to  well-directed  labor ; 
nothing  is  to  be  obtained  without  it.  Not  to  enter  into  metaphysi- 
cal discussions  on  the  nature  or  essence  of  genius,  I  will  venture 
to  assert,  that  assiduity  unabated  by  difficulty,  and  a  disposition 
eagerly  directed  to  the  object  of  its  pursuit,  will  produce  effects 
similar  to  those  which  some  call  the  result  of  natural  powers." — 
Vol.  i.,  p.  44. 

The  only  tendency  of  the  maxim  here  laid  down  seems  to  be 
to  lure  those  students  on  with  the  hopes  of  excellence  who  have 


ON  SIR  JOSHUA  REYNOLDS'S  DISCOURSES.  193 

no  chance  of  succeeding,  and  to  deter  those  who  have,  from  rely- 
ing on  the  only  prop  and  source  of  real  excellence — the  strong 
bent  and  impulse  of  their  natural  powers.  Industry  alone  can 
only  produce  mediocrity  ;  but  mediocrity  in  art  is  not  worth  the 
trouble  of  industry.  Genius,  great  natural  powers  will  give 
industry  and  ardor  in  the  pursuit  of  their  proper  object,  but  not 
if  you  divert  them  from  that  object  into  the  trammels  of  common- 
place mechanical  labor.  By  this  method  you  neutralise  all  dis- 
tinction of  character — make  a  pedant  of  the  blockhead,  and  a 
drudge  of  the  man  of  genius.  What,  for  instance,  would  have 
been  the  effect  of  persuading  Hogarth  or  Rembrandt  to  place  no 
dependence  on  their  own  genius,  and  to  apply  themselves  to  the 
general  study  of  the  different  branches  of  the  art  and  of  every 
sort  of  excellence,  with  a  confidence  of  success  proportioned  to 
their  misguided  efforts,  but  to  destroy  both  those  great  artists  ? 
"  You  take  my  house  when  you  do  take  the  prop  that  doth  sustain 
my  house  ?"  You  undermine  the  superstructure  of  art  when  you 
strike  at  its  main  pillar  and  support,  confidence  and  faith  in 
nature.  We  might  as  well  advise  a  person  who  had  discovered 
a  silver  or  a  lead  mine  on  his  estate  to  close  it  up,  or  the  common 
farmer  to  plough  up  every  acre  he  rents  in  the  hope  of  discover- 
ing hidden  treasure,  as  advise  the  man  of  original  genius  to 
neglect  his  particular  vein  for  the  study  of  rules  and  the  imita- 
tion of  others,  or  try  to  persuade  the  man  of  no  strong  natural 
powers  that  he  can  supply  their  deficiency  by  laborious  applica- 
tion.— Sir  Joshua  soon  after,  in  the  Third  Discourse,  alluding  to 
the  terms,  inspiration,  genius,  gusto,  applied  by  critics  and  orators 
to  painting,  proceeds, 

"  Such  is  the  warmth  with  which  both  the  Ancients  and  Moderns 
speak  of  this  divine  principle  of  the  art ;  but,  as  I  have  formerly 
observed,  enthusiastic  admiration  seldom  promotes  knowledge. 
Though  a  student  by  such  praise  may  have  his  attention  roused 
and  a  desire  excited  of  running  in  this  great  career ;  yet  it  is 
possible  that  what  has  been  said  to  excite,  may  only  serve  to  deter 
him.  He  examines  his  own  mind,  and  perceives  there  nothing 
of  that  divine  inspiration,  with  which,  he  is  told,  so  many  others 
have  been  favored.  He  never  travelled  to  heaven  to  gather  new 
ideas;  and  he  finds  himself  possessed  of  no  other  qualifications 

SECOND    SERIES. PART    I.  14 


194  TABLE  TALK. 


than  what  mere  common  observation  and  a  plain  understanding 
can  confer.  Thus  he  becomes  gloomy  amidst  the  splendor  of 
figurative  declamation,  and  thinks  it  hopeless  to  pursue  an  object 
which  he  supposes  out  of  the  reach  of  human  industry." — Vol. 
i.,  p.  56. 

Yet  presently  after  he  adds, 

"  It  is  not  easy  to  define  in  what  this  great  style  consists  ;  noi 
to  describe  by  words  the  proper  means  of  acquiring  it,  if  the  mind 
of  the  student  should  he  at  all  capable  of  such  an  acquisition.  Could 
we  teach  taste  or  genius  by  rules,  they  would  be  no  longer  taste 
and  genius." — Ibid.,  p.  57. 

Here  then  Sir  Joshua  admits  that  it  is  a  question  whether  the 
student  is  likely  to  be  at  all  capable  of  such  an  acquisition  as  the 
higher  excellences  of  art,  though  he  had  said  in  the  passage  just 
quoted  above,  that  it  is  within  the  reach  of  constant  assiduity,  and 
of  a  disposition  eagerly  directed  to  the  object  of  its  pursuit,  to 
effect  all  that  is  usually  considered  as  the  result  of  natural  powers. 
Is  the  theory  which  our  author  means  to  inculcate  a  mere  delu- 
sion, a  mere  arbitrary  assumption  ?  At  one  moment  Sir  Joshua 
attributes  the  hopelessness  of  the  student  to  attain  perfection  to  the 
discouraging  influence  of  certain  figurative  and  overstrained  ex- 
pressions, and  in  the  next  doubts  his  capacity  for  such  an  acquisi- 
tion under  any  circumstances.  Would  he  have  him  hope  against 
hope,  then  ?  If  he  "  examines  his  own  mind  and  finds  nothing 
there  of  that  divine  inspiration,  with  which  he  is  told  so  many 
others  have  been  favored,"  but  which  he  has  never  felt  himself; 
if  "  he  finds  himself  possessed  of  no  othpr  qualifications"  for  the 
highest  efforts  of  genius  and  imagination  "  than  what  mere  com- 
mon observation  and  a  plain  understanding  can  confer,"  he  may 
as  well  desist  at  once  from  "ascending  the  brightest  heaven  of 
invention  :" — if  the  very  idea  of  the  divinity  of  art  deters  instead 
of  animating  him,  if  the  enthusiasm  with  which  others  speak  of 
it  damps  the  flame  in  his  own  breast,  he  had  better  not  enter  into 
a  competition  where  he  wants  the  first  principle  of  success,  the 
daring  to  aspire  and  the  hope  to  excel.  He  may  be  assured  he 
is  not  the  man.  Sir  Joshua  himself  was  not  struck  at  first  by  the 
sight  of  the  masterpieces  of  the  great  style  of  art,  and  he  seems 
unconsciously  to  have  adopted  this  theory  to  show  that  he  might 


ON  SIR  JOSHUA  REYNOLDS'S  DISCOURSES.  195 

still  have  succeeded  in  it  but  for  want  of  due  application.  His 
hypothesis  goes  to  this — to  make  the  common  run  of  his  readers 
fancy  they  can  do  all  that  can  be  done  by  genius,  and  to  make 
the  man  of  genius  believe  he  can  only  do  what  is  to  be  done  by 
mechanical  rules  and  systematic  industry.  This  is  not  a  very 
feasible  scheme ;  nor  is  Sir  Joshua  sufficiently  clear  and  explicit 
in  his  reasoning  in  support  of  it. 

In  speaking  of  Carlo  Maratti,  he  confesses  the  inefficiency  of 
this  doctrine  in  a  very  remarkable  manner  : — 

"  Carlo  Maratti  succeeded  better  than  those  I  have  first  named, 
and  I  think  owes  his  superiority  to  the  extension  of  his  views  : 
besides  his  master  Andrea  Sacchi,  he  imitated  RafFaelle,  Guido, 
and  the  Caraccis.  It  is  true,  there  is  nothing  very  captivating  in 
Carlo  Maratti ;  but  this  proceeded  from  a  want  which  cannot  be 
completely  supplied  ;  that  is,  want  of  strength  of  parts.  In  this 
certainly  men  are  not  equal;  and  a  man  can  bring  home  wares 
only  in  proportion  to  the  capital  with  which  he  goes  to  market. 
Carlo,  by  diligence,  made  the  most  of  what  he  had :  but  there  was 
undoubtedly  a  heaviness  about  him,  which  extended  itself  uni- 
formly to  his  invention,  expression,  his  drawing,  coloring,  and  the 
general  effect  of  his  pictures.  The  truth  is,  he  never  equalled 
any  of  his  patterns  in  any  one  thing,  and  he  added  little  of  his 
own."— Ibid.,  p.  172. 

Here  then  Reynolds,  we  see,  fairly  gives  up  the  argument. 
Carlo,  after  all,  was  a  heavy  hand ;  nor  could  all  his  diligence 
and  his  making  the  most  of  what  he  had,  make  up  for  the  want 
of  "natural  powers."  Sir  Joshua's  good  sense  pointed  out  to 
him  the  truth  in  the  individual  instance,  though  he  might  be  led 
astray  by  a  vague  general  theory.  Such  however  is  the  effect 
of  a  false  principle  that  there  is  an  evident  bias  in  the  artist's 
mind  to  make  genius  lean  upon  others  for  support,  instead  of 
trusting  to  itself,  and  developing  its  own  incommunicable  resour- 
ces. So  in  treating  in  the  Twelfth  Discourse  of  the  way  in  which 
great  artists  are  formed,  Sir  Joshua  reverts  very  nearly  to  his  first 
position. 

u  The  daily  food  and  nourishment  of  the  mind  of  an  Artist  is 
found  in  the  great  works  of  his  predecessors.  There  is  no  other 
way  for  him  to   become  great  himself.     Serpens,  nisi  scrpentem 

2(5 


196  TABLE  TALK 


comederit,  non  jit  draco.  Raffaelle,  as  it  appears  from  what  hag 
been  said,  had  carefully  studied  the  works  of  Masaccio,  and  indeed 
there  was  no  other,  if  we  except  Michael  Angelo  (whom  he  like- 
wise imitated)*  so  worthy  of  his  attention :  and  though  his  man- 
ner was  dry  and  hard,  his  compositions  formal,  and  not  enough 
diversified,  according  to  the  custom  of  Painters  in  that  early 
period,  yet  his  works  possess  that  grandeur  and  simplicity  which 
accompany,  and  even  sometimes  proceed  from,  regularity  and 
hardness  of  manner.  We  must  consider  the  barbarous  state  of 
the  arts  before  his  time,  when  skill  in  drawing  was  so  little  un- 
derstood, that  the  best  of  the  painters  could  not  even  fore-shorten 
the  foot,  but  every  figure  appeared  to  stand  upon  his  toes ;  and 
what  served  for  drapery  had,  from  the  hardness  and  smallness  of 
the  folds,  too  much  the  appearance  of  cords  clinging  round  the 
body.  He  first  introduced  large  drapery,  flowing  in  an  easy  and 
natural  manner :  indeed  he  appears  to  be  the  first  who  discovered 
the  path  that  leads  to  every  excellence  to  which  the  art  after- 
wards arrived,  and  may  therefore  be  justly  considered  as  one 
of  the  Great  Fathers  of  Modern  Art. 

"  Though  I  have  been  led  on  to  a  longer  digression  respecting 
this  great  painter  than  I  intended,  yet  I  cannot  avoid  mentioning 
another  excellence  which  he  possessed  in  a  very  eminent  degree ; 
he  was  as  much  distinguished  among  his  contemporaries  for  his 
diligence  and  industry,  as  he  was  for  the  natural  faculties  of  his 
mind.  We  are  told  that  his  whole  attention  was  absorbed  in  the 
pursuit  of  his  art,  and  that  he  acquired  the  name  of  Masaccio 
from  his  total  disregard  to  his  dress,  his  person,  and  all  the  com- 
mon concerns  of  life.  He  is  indeed  a  signal  instance  of  what  well- 
directed  diligence  will  do  in  a  short  time  :  he  lived  but  twenty- 
seven  years ;  yet  in  that  short  space  carried  the  art  so  far  beyond 
what  it  had  before  reached,  that  he  appears  to  stand  alone  as  a 
model  for  his  successors.  Vasari  gives  a  long  catalogue  of 
painters  and  sculptors  who  formed  their  taste  and  learned  their 
art,   by  studying  his  works  ;   among  those,  he  names   Michael 


*  How  careful  is  Sir  Joshua,  even  in  a  parenthesis,  to  insinuate  the 
obligations  of  this  great  genius  to  others,  as  if  he  would  have  been  nothing 
without  them  1 


ON  SIR  JOSHUA  REYNOLDS'S  DISCOURSES.  197 

Angelo,  Lionardo  da  Vinci,  Pietro  Perugino,  Raffaelle,  Barto- 
omeo,  Andrea  del  Sarto,  II  Rosso,  and  Pierino  del  Vaga." — Vol. 
ii.,  p.  95. 

Sir  Joshua  here  again  halts  between  two  opinions.  He  tells  us 
the  names  of  the  painters  who  formed  themselves  upon  Masaccio's 
style :  he  does  not  tell  us  on  whom  he  formed  himself.  At  one 
time  the  natural  faculties  of  his  mind  were  as  remarkable  as  his 
industry ;  at  another  he  was  only  a  signal  instance  of  what  well- 
directed  diligence  will  do  in  a  short  time.  Then  again  "  he 
appears  to  have  been  the  first  who  discovered  the  path  that  leads 
to  every  excellence  to  which  the  Art  afterwards  arrived,"  though 
he  is  introduced  in  an  argument  to  show  that  "  the  daily  food  and 
nourishment  of  the  mind  of  the  Artist  must  be  found  in  the  works 
of  his  predecessors."  There  is  something  surely  very  wavering 
and  unsatisfactory  in  all  this. 

Sir  Joshua,  in  another  part  of  his  work,  endeavors  to  reconcile 
and  prop  up  these  contradictions  by  a  paradoxical  sophism  which 
I  think  turns  upon  himself.  He  says,  "  I  am  on  the  contrary 
persuaded,  that  by  imitation  only"  (by  which  he  has  just  explained 
himself  to  mean  the  study  of  other  masters)  "  variety  and  even 
originality  of  invention  is  produced.  I  will  go  further ;  even 
genius,  at  least  what  is  so  called,  is  the  child  of  imitation.  But 
as  this  appears  to  be  contrary  to  the  general  opinion,  I  must  ex- 
plain my  position  before  I  enforce  it. 

"  Genius  is  supposed  to  be  a  power  of  producing  excellences, 
which  are  out  of  the  reach  of  the  rules  of  art ;  a  power  which  no 
precepts  can  teach,  and  which  no  industry  can  acquire.  , 

"  This  opinion  of  the  impossibility  of  acquiring  those  beauties, 
which  stamp  the  work  with  the  character  of  genius,  supposes  that 
it  is  something  more  fixed  than  in  reality  it  is ;  and  that  we 
always  do  and  ever  did  agree  in  opinion,  with  respect  to  what 
should  be  considered  as  the  characteristic  of  genius.  But  the 
truth  is,  that  the  degree  of  excellence  which  proclaims  Genius  is 
different  in  different  times  and  different  places  ;  and  what  shows 
it  to  be  so  is,  that  mankind  have  often  changed  their  opinion  upon 
this  matter. 

"  When  the  Arts  were  in  their  infancy,  the  power  of  merely 
drawing  the  likeness  of  any  object,  was  considered  as  one  of  ita 


198  TABLE  TALK. 


greatest  efforts.  The  common  people,  ignorant  of  the  principles 
of  art,  talk  the  same  language  even  to  this  day.  But  when  it 
was  found  that  every  man  could  be  taught  to  do  this,  and  a  great 
deal  more,  merely  by  the  observance  of  certain  precepts  ;  the 
name  of  Genius  then  shifted  its  application,  and  was  given  only 
to  him  who  added  the  peculiar  character  of  the  object  he  repre- 
sented ;.  to  him  who  had  invention,  expression,  grace,  or  dignity, 
in  short,  those  qualities  or  excellences,  the  power  of  producing 
which  could  not  llien  be  taught  by  any  known  and  promulgated 
rules. 

"  We  are  very  sure  that  the  beauty  of  form,  the  expression  of 
the  passions,  the  art  of  composition,  even  the  power  of  giving  a 
general  air  of  grandeur  to  a  work,  is  at  present  very  much  under 
the  dominion  of  rules.  These  excellences  were  heretofore  con- 
sidered merely  as  the  effects  of  genius  ;  and  justly,  if  genius  is 
not  taken  for  inspiration,  but  as  the  effect  of  close  observation  and 
experience." — The  Sixth  Discourse,  Vol.  i.,  p.  153. 

Sir  Joshua  began  with  undertaking  to  show  that  "  genius  was 
the  child  of  the  imitation  of  others  ;  and  now  it  turns  out  not  to 
be  inspiration  indeed,  but  the  effect  of  close  observation  and  expe- 
rience." The  whole  drift  of  this  argument  appears  to  be  contrary 
to  what  the  writer  intended  ;  for  the  obvious  inference  is  that  the 
essence  of  genius  consists  entirely,  both  in  kind  and  degree,  in 
the  single  circumstance  of  originality.  The  very  same  things 
are  or  are  not  genius,  according  as  they  proceed  from  invention 
or  from  mere  imitation.  In  so  far  as  a  thing  is  original,  as  it  has 
never  been  done  before,  it  acquires  and  it  deserves  the  appellation 
of  genius  :  in  so  far  as  it  is  not  original,  and  is  borrowed  from 
others  or  taught  by  rule,  it  is  not,  neither  is  it  called,  genius. 
This  does  not  make  much  for  the  supposition  that  genius  is  a  tra- 
ditional and  second-hand  quality.  Because,  for  example,  a  man 
without  much  genius  can  copy  a  picture  of  Michael  Angelo's 
does  it  follow  that  there  was  no  genius  in  the  original  design,  or 
that  the  inventor  and  the  copyist  are  equal  ?  If  indeed,  as  Sir 
Joshua  labors  to  prove,  mere  imitation  of  existing  models  and 
attention  to  established  rules  could  produce  results  exactly  simi- 
lar to  those  of  natural  powers,  if  the  progress  of  art  as  a  learned 
Drofession  were  a  gradual  but  continual  accumulation  of  individ- 


ON  SIR  JOSHUA  REYNOLDS'S  DISCOURSES  199 

ual  excellence,  instead  of  being  a  sudden  and  almost  miraculous 
start  to  the  highest  beauty  and  grandeur  nearly  at  first,  and  a 
regular  declension  to  mediocrity  ever  after,  then  indeed  the  dis- 
tinction between  genius  and  imitation  would  be  little  worth  con- 
tending for ;  the  causes  might  be  different,  the  effects  would  be 
the  same,  or  rather  skill  to  avail  ourselves  of  external  advantages 
would  be  of  more  importance  and  efficacy  than  the  most  pow- 
erful internal  resources.  But  as  the  case  stands,  all  the  great 
works  of  art  have  been  the  offspring  of  individual  genius,  either 
projecting  itself  before  the  general  advances  of  society  or  striking 
out  a  separate  path  for  itself;  and  all  the  rest  is  but  labor  in 
vain.  For  every  purpose  of  emulation  or  instruction,  we  go  back 
to  the  original  inventors,  not  to  those  who  imitated,  and  as  it  is 
falsely  pretended,  improved  upon  their  models  :  or  if  those  who 
followed  have  at  any  time  attained  as  high  a  rank  or  surpassed 
their  predecessors,  it  was  not  from  borrowing  their  excellences, 
but  by  unfolding  new  and  exquisite  powers  of  their  own,  of  which 
the  moving  principle  lay  in  the  individual  mind,  and  not  in  the 
stimulus  afforded  by  previous  example  and  general  knowledge. 
Great  faults,  it  is  true,  may  be  avoided,  but  great  excellences 
can  never  be  attained  in  this  way.  If  Sir  Joshua's  hypothesis  of 
progressive  refinement  in  art  was  anything  more  than  a  verbal 
fallacy,  why  does  he  go  back  to  Michael  Angelo  as  the  God  of 
his  idolatry  ?  Why  does  he  find  fault  with  Carlo  Maratti  for 
being  heavy  ?  Or  why  doe's  he  declare  as  explicitly  as  truly, 
that  "  the  judgment,  after  it  had  been  long  passive,  by  degrees 
loses  its  power  of  becoming  active  when  exertion  is  necessary  ?" 
— Once  more  to  point  out  the  fluctuation  in  Sir  Joshua's  notions 
on  this  subject  of  the  advantages  of  natural  genius  and  artificial 
study,  he  says,  when  recommending  the  proper  objects  of  ambi- 
tion to  the  young  artist — 

"  My  advice  in  a  word  is  this  :  keep  your  principal  attention 
fixed  upon  the  higher  excellences.  If  you  compass  them,  and 
compass  nothing  more,  you  are  still  in  the  first  class.  We  may 
regret  the  innumerable  beauties  which  you  may  want ;  you  may 
be  very  imperfect ;  but  still  you  are  an  imperfect  artist  of  the 
highest  order." — Vol.  i.,  p.  116. 

This  is  the  Fifth  Discourse.     In  the  Seventh  our  artist  seem* 


200  TABLE  TALK. 


to  waver,  and  fling  a  doubt  on  his  former  decision,  whereby  "  it 
loses  some  color.*' 

"  Indeed  perfection  in  an  inferior  style  may  be  reasonably 
preferred  to  mediocrity  in  the  highest  walks  of  art.  A  landscape 
of  Claude  Lorraine  may*  be  preferred  to  a  history  by  Luca  Gior 
dano  :  but  hence  appears  the  necessity  of  the  connoisseur's  know, 
ing  in  what  consists  the  excellency  of  each  class,  in  order  to 
judge  how  near  it  approaches  to  perfection." — Ibid.,  p.  217. 

As  he  advances,  however,  he  grows  bolder,  and  altogether  dis- 
cards his  theory  of  judging  of  the  artist  by  the  class  to  which  he 
belongs — "  But  we  have  seen  the  sanction  of  all  mankind,"  he 
says,  "  in  preferring  genius  in  a  lower  rank  of  art,  to  feebleness 
and  insipidity  in  the  highest."  This  is  in  speaking  of  Gains- 
borough. The  whole  passage  is  excellent,  and,  I  should  think, 
conclusive  against  the  general  and  factitious  style  of  art  on  which 
he  insists  so  much  at  other  times. 

"  On  this  ground,  however  unsafe,  I  will  venture  to  prophesy, 
that  two  of  the  last  distinguished  Painters  of  that  country,  I  mean 
Pompeio  Battoni,  and  Raffaelle  Mengs,  however  great  their  names 
may  at  present  sound  in  our  ears,f  will  very  soon  fall  into  the 
rank  of  Imperiale,  Sebastian  Concha,  Placido  Constanza,  Mas- 
succio,  and  the  rest  of  their  immediate  predecessors ;  whose 
names,  though  equally  renowned  in  their  life-time,  are  now  fallen 
into  what  is  little  short  of  total  oblivion.  I  do  not  say  that  those 
painters  were  not  superior  to  the  artist  I  allude  to,^  and  whose 
loss  we  lament,  in  a  certain  routine  of  practice,  which,  to  the  eyes 
of  common  observers,  has  the  air  of  a  learned  composition,  and 
bears  a  sort  of  superficial  resemblance  to  the  manner  of  the  great 
men  who  went  before  them.  I  know  this  perfectly  well ;  but  1 
know  likewise,  that  a  man  looking  for  real  and  lasting  reputation 
must  unlearn  much  of  the  common-place  method  so  observable  in 
the  works  of  the  artists  whom  I  have  named.  For  my  own  part, 
I  confess,  I  take  more  interest  in  and  am  more  captivated  with 
the  powerful  impression  of  nature,  which  Gainsborough  exhibited 

*  If  Sir  Joshua  had  an  offer  to  exchange  a  Luca  Giordano  in  his  collec 
tion  for  a  Claude  Lorraine,  he  would  not  have  hesitated  long  about  th« 
preference. 

f  Written  in  1788  %  Gainsborough 


ON  SIR  JOSHUA  REYNOLDS'S  DISCOURSES.  201 

in  his  portraits  and  in  his  landscapes,  and  the  interesting  simpli- 
city and  elegance  of  his  .ittle  ordinary  beggar-children,  than  with 
any  of  the  works  of  that  School,  since  the  time  of  Andrea  Sacchi, 
or  perhaps  we  may  say,  Carlo  Maratti ;  two  painters  who  may 
truly  be  said  to  be  Ultimi  Romanorum. 

"  I  am  well  aware  how  much  I  lay  myself  open  to  the  censure 
and  ridicule  of  the  Academical  professors  of  other  nations,  in 
preferring  the  humble  attempts  of  Gainsborough  to  the  works  of 
those  regular  graduates  in  the  great  historical  style.  But  we 
liave  the  sanction  of  all  mankind  in  preferring  genius  in  a  lower 
rank  of  art  to  feebleness  and  insipidity  in  the  highest." — Vol.  ii., 
p.  152. 

Yet  this  excellent  artist  and  critic  had  said  but  a  few  pages 
before,  when  working  upon  his  theory — "  For  this  reason  I  shall 
beg  leave  to  lay  before  you  a  few  thoughts  on  the  subject ;  to 
throw  out  some  hints  that  may  lead  your  minds  to  an  opinion 
(which  I  take  to  be  the  true  one)  that  Painting  is  not  only  not  to 
be  considered  as  an  imitation  operating  by  deception,  but  that  it 
is,  and  ought  to  be,  in  many  points  of  view  and  strictly  speaking, 
no  imitation  at  all  of  external  nature.  Perhaps  it  ought  to  be  as 
far  removed  from  the  vulgar  idea  of  imitation  as  the  refined  civil- 
ized  state  in  which  we  live  is  removed  from  a  gross  state  of 
nature  ;  and  those  who  have  not  cultivated  their  imaginations, 
which  the  majority  of  mankind  certainly  have  not,  may  be  said, 
in  regard  to  arts,  to  continue  in  this  state  of  nature.  Such  men 
will  always  prefer  imitation  "  (the  imitation  of  nature)  "  to  that 
excellence  which  is  addressed  to  another  faculty  that  they  do  not 
possess  ;  but  these  are  not  the  persons  to  whom  a  painter  is  to 
look,  any  more  than  a  judge  of  morals  and  manners  ought  to  refer 
controverted  points  upon  those  subjects  to  the  opinions  of  people 
taken  from  the  banks  of  the  Ohio,  or  from  New  Holland." — Vol. 
ii.,  p.  119. 

In  opposition  to  the  sentiment  here  expressed,  that  "  Painting  is 
and  ought  to  be,  in  many  points  of  view  and  strictly  speaking,  no 
imitation  at  all  of  external  nature,"  it  is  emphatically  said  in 
another  place — "  Nature  is  and  must  be  the  fountain  which  alone 
is  inexhaustible  ;  and  from  which  all  excellences  must  originally 
flow." — Discourse  VI.     Vol.  i.,  p.  162. 

26 


20?  TABLE  TALK 

I  cannot  undertake  to  reconcile  so  many  contradictions,  nor  do 
I  think  it  an  easy  task  for  the  student  1o  derive  any  simple  or 
intelligible  clue  from  these  conflicting  authorities  and  broken  hints 
in  the  prosecution  of  his  art.  Sir  Joshua  appears  to  have  imbibed 
from  others  (Burke  or  Johnson)  a  spurious  metaphysical  notion 
that  art  was  to  be  preferred  to  nature,  and  learning  to  genius, 
with  which  his  own  good  sense  and  practical  observation  were 
continually  at  war,  but  from  which  he  only  emancipates  himself 
for  a  moment  to  relapse  into  the  same  error  again  shortly  after.* 
The  conclusion  of  the  Twelfth  Discourse  is,  I  think,  however,  a 
triumphant  and  unanswerable  denunciation  of  his  own  favorite 
paradox  on  the  objects  and  study  of  art. 

"  Those  artists  "  (he  says  with  a  strain  of  eloquent  truth), 
"  who  have  quitted  the  service  of  nature  (whose  service,  when 
well  understood,  is  perfect  freedom),  and  have  put  themselves 
under  the  direction  of  I  know  not  what  capricious  fantastical 
mistress,  who  fascinates  and  overpowers  their  whole  mind,  and 
from  whose  dominion  there  are  no  hopes  of  their  being  ever 
reclaimed  (since  they  appear  perfectly  satisfied,  and  not  at  all 
conscious  of  their  forlorn  situation),  like  the  transformed  followers 
of  Comus, 

'  Not  once  perceived  their  foul  disfigurement ; 
But  boast  themselves  more  comely  than  before.' 

"  Methinks,  such  men,  who  have  found  out  so  short  a  path, 
have  no  reason  to  complain  of  the  shortness  of  life  and  the  extent 
of  art ;  since  life  is  so  much  longer  than  is  wanted  for  their 
improvement,  or  is  indeed  necessary  for  the  accomplishment  of 
their  idea  of  perfection. \  On  the  contrary,  he  who  recurs  to 
nature,  at  every  recurrence  renews  his  strength.     The  rules  of 

*  Sir  Joshua  himself  wanted  academic  skill  and  patience  in  the  details  of 
his  profession.  From  these  defects  he  seems  to  have  been  alternately 
repelled  by  each  theory  and  style  of  art,  the  simply  natural  and  elaborately 
scientific,  as  it  came  before  him  ;  and  in  his  impatience  of  each,  to  have 
been  betrayed  into  a  tissue  of  inconsistencies  somewhat  difficult  to  unravel. 

t  He  had  been  before  speaking  of  Boucher,  Director  of  the  French  Aca- 
demy, who  told  him  that  "  when  he  was  young,  studying  his  art,  he  found 
it  necessary  to  use  models,  but  that  he  had  left  them  off  for  many  years," 


ON  SIR  JOSHUA  REYNOLDS'S  DISCOURSES.  203 

art  he  is  never  likely  to  forget :  they  are  few  and  simple  :  but 
Nature  is  refined,  subtle,  and  infinitely  various,  beyond  the  power 
and  retention  of  memory  ;  it  is  necessary  therefore  to  have  con- 
tinual recourse  to  her.  In  this  intercourse,  there  is  no  end  of  his 
improvement :  the  longer  he  lives,  the  nearer  he  approaches  to 
the  true  and  perfect  idea  of  Art." — Vol.  ii.,  p.  108. 

26* 


*H  TABLE  TALK. 


ESSAY   XVI. 

The  same  Subject  continued. 

The  first  inquiry  which  runs  through  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds's  Dis- 
courses is,  whether  the  student  ought  to  look  at  nature  with  his  own 
eyes  or  with  the  eyes  of  others,  and  on  the  whole,  he  apparently 
inclines  to  the  latter.  The  second  question  is,  what  is  to  be  un- 
derstood by  nature  ;  whether  it  is  a  general  and  abstract  idea;  or  an 
aggregate  of  particulars  ;  and  he  strenuously  maintains  the  for- 
mer of  these  positions.  Yet  it  is  not  easy  always  to  determine 
how  far  or  with  what  precise  limitations  he  does  so. 

The  first  germ  of  his  speculations  on  this  subject  is  to  be  found 
in  two  papers  in  the  Idler.  In  the  last  paragraph  of  the  second 
of  these,  he  says, 

"  If  it  has  been  proved  that  the  Painter,  by  attending  to  the  in- 
variable and  general  ideas  of  nature,  produces  beauty,  he  must, 
by  regarding  minute  particularities  and  accidental  discriminations, 
deviate  from  the  universal  rule,  and  pollute  his  canvas  with  de- 
formity."—See  Works,  Vol.  ii.,  p.  242. 

In  answer  to  this,  I  would  say  that  deformity  is  not  the  being 
varied  in  the  particulars,  in  which  all  things  differ  (for  on  this 
principle  all  nature,  which  is  made  up  of  individuals,  would  be  a 
heap  of  deformity),  but  in  violating  general  rules,  in  which  they 
all  or  almost  all  agree.  Thus  there  are  no  two  noses  in  the 
world  exactly  alike,  or  without  a  great  variety  of  subordinate 
parts,  which  may  still  be  handsome,  but  a  face  without  any  nose 
at  all,  or  a  nose  (like  that  of  a  mask)  without  any  particularity  in 
the  details,  would  be  a  great  deformity  in  art  or  nature.  Sir 
Joshua  seems  to  have  been  led  into  his  notions  on  this  subject  either 
by  an  ambiguity  of  terms,  or  by  taking  only  one  view  of  nature. 
He  supposes  grandeur,  or  the  general  effect  of  the  whole,  to  con- 
sist in  leaving  out  the  particular  details,  because  these  details  are 
sometimes  found  without  any  grandeur  of  effect,  and  he  therefor* 


ON  SIR  JOSHUA  REYNOLDS'S  DISCOURSES.  205 

conceives  the  two  things  to  be  irreconcileable  and  the  alternatives 
of  each  other.  This  is  very  imperfect  reasoning.  If  the  mere 
leaving  out  the  details  constituted  grandeur,  any  one  could  do 
this :  the  greatest  dauber  would  at  that  rate  be  the  greatest  artist. 
A  house  or  sign-painter  might  instantly  enter  the  lists  with  Michael 
Angelo,  and  might  look  down  on  the  little,  dry,  hard  manner  of 
Raphael.  But  grandeur  depends  on  a  distinct  principle  of  its  own, 
not  on  a  negation  of  the  parts ;  and  as  it  does  not  arise  from  their 
omission,  so  neither  is  it  incompatible  with  their  insertion  or  the  high- 
est finishing.  In  fact,  an  artist  may  give  the  minute  particulars  of 
any  object  one  by  one,  and  with  the  utmost  care,  and  totally  neglect 
the  proportions,  arrangement  and  general  masses,  on  which  the 
effect  of  the  whole  more  immediately  depends  ;  or  he  may  give  the 
latter,  viz.,  the  proportions  and  arrangement  of  the  larger  parts  and 
the  general  masses  of  light  and  shade,  and  leave  all  the  minuter 
parts  of  which  those  parts  are  composed  a  mere  blotch,  one  general 
smear,  like  the  first  crude  and  hasty  getting  in  of  the  round-work 
of  a  picture  :  he  may  do  either  of  these,  or  he  may  combine  both,  that 
is,  finish  the  parts,  but  put  them  in  their  right  places,  and  keep 
them  in  due  subordination  to  the  general  effect  and  massing  of 
the  whole.  If  the  exclusion  of  the  parts  were  necessary  to  the 
grandeur  of  the  whole  composition,  if  the  more  entire  this  exclu- 
sion, if  the  more  like  a  tabula  rasa,  a  vague,  undefined,  shadowy 
and  abstract  representation  the  picture  was,  the  greater  the  gran- 
deur, there  could  be  no  danger  of  pushing  this  principle  too  far, 
and  going  the  full  length  of  Sir  Joshua's  theory  without  any  re- 
strictions or  mental  reservations.  But  neither  of  these  supposi- 
tions is  true.  The  greatest  grandeur  may  co-exist  with  the  most 
perfect,  nay  with  a  microscopic  accuracy  of  detail,  as  we  see  it 
does  often  in  nature :  the  greatest  looseness  and  slovenliness  of 
execution  may  be  displayed  without  any  grandeur  at  all  either  in 
the  outline  or  distribution  of  the  masses  of  color.  To  explain 
more  particularly  what  I  mean.  I  have  seen  and  copied  portraits 
by  Titian,  in  which  the  eyebrows  were  marked  with  a  number  of 
small  strokes,  like  hair  lines  (indeed,  the  hairs  of  which  they 
were  composed  were  in  a  great  measure  given) — but  did  this  de- 
stroy the  grandeur  of  expression,  the  truth  of  outline,  arising  from 
the  arrangement  of  these  hair-lines  in  a  given  form  ?     The  gran- 


206  TABLE  TALK. 


deur,  the  character,  the  expression  remained,  for  the  general  form 
or  arched  and  expanded  outline  remained,  just  as  much  as  if  it 
had  been  daubed  in  with  a  blacking-brush :  the  introduction  of 
the  internal  parts  and  texture  only  added  delicacy  and  truth  to 
the  general  and  striking  effect  of  the  whole.  Surely  a  number 
of  small  dots  or  lines  may  be  arranged  into  the  form  of  a  square 
or  a  circle  indiscriminately ;  the  square  or  circle,  that  is,  the 
larger  figure,  remains  the  same,  whether  the  line  of  which  it  con- 
sists is  broken  or  continuous  ;  as  we  may  see  in  prints  where  the 
outlines,  features,  and  masses  remain  the  same  in  all  varieties  of 
mezzotinto,  dotted  and  line  engraving.  If  Titian  in  marking  the 
appearance  of  the  hairs  had  deranged  the  general  shape  and  con- 
tour of  the  eyebrows,  he  would  have  destroyed  the  look  of  nature ; 
but  as  he  did  not,  but  kept  both  in  view,  he  proportionately  im- 
proved his  copy  of  it.  So  in  what  regards  the  masses  of  light 
and  shade,  the  variety,  the  delicate  transparency  and  broken 
transitions  of  the  tints  is  not  inconsistent  with  the  greatest  breadth 
or  boldest  contrasts.  If  the  light,  for  instance,  is  thrown  strongly 
on  one  side  of  a  face,  and  the  other  is  cast  into  deep  shade,  let 
the  individual  and  various  parts  of  the  surface  be  finished  with 
the  most  scrupulous  exactness  both  in  the  drawing  and  in  the  col- 
ors :  provided  nature  is  not  exceeded,  this  will  not  nor  cannot  de- 
stroy the  force  and  harmony  of  the  composition.  One  side  of  the 
face  will  still  have  that  great  and  leading  distinction  of  being  seen 
in  shadow,  and  the  other  of  being  seen  in  the  light,  let  the  subor- 
dinate differences  be  as  many  and  as  precise  as  they  will.  Sup- 
pose a  panther  is  painted  in  the  sun :  will  it  be  necessary  to  leave 
out  the  spots  to  produce  breadth  and  the  great  style,  or  will  this 
not  be  done  more  effectually  by  painting  the  spots  on  one  side  of 
his  shaggy  coat  as  they  are  seen  in  the  light,  and  those  of  the 
other  as  they  really  appear  in  natural  s"hadow  ?  the  two  masses 
are  thus  preserved  completely,  and  no  offence  is  done  to  truth  and 
nature.  Otherwise  we  resolve  the  distribution  of  light  and  shade 
into  local  coloring.  The  masses,  the  grandeur  exist  equally  in 
external  nature  with  the  local  differences  of  different  colors.  Yet 
Sir  Joshua  seems  to  argue  that  the  grandeur,  the  effect  of  the 
whole  object,  is  confined  to  the  general  idea  in  the  mind,  and  that 
all  the  littleness  and  individuality  is  in  nature.     This  is  an  essen- 


ON  SIR  JOSHUA  REYNOLDS'S  DISCOURSES.  207 

tially  false  view  of  the  subject.  This  grandeur,  this  general 
effect,  is  indeed  always  combined  with  the  details,  or  what  our 
theoretical  reasoner  would  designate  as  littleness  in  nature :  and 
so  it  ought  to  be  in  art,  as  far  as  art  can  follow  nature  with  pru- 
dence and  profit.  What  is  the  fault  of  Denner's  style  ?  It  is, 
that  he  does  not  give  this  combination  of  properties  :  that  he  gives 
only  one  view  of  nature,  that  he  abstracts  the  details,  the  finish, 
ing,  the  curiosities  of  natural  appearances  from  the  general  result, 
truth  and  character  of  the  whole,  and  in  finishing  every  part  with 
elaborate  care,  totally  loses  sight  of  the  more  important  and  strik- 
ing appearance  of  the  object  as  it  presents  itself  to  us  in  nature. 
He  gives  every  part  of  a  face  ;  but  the  shape,  the  expression,  tha 
light  and  shade  of  the  whole  is  wrong,  and  as  far  as  can  be  from 
what  is  natural.  He  gives  an  infinite  variety  of  tints,  but  they 
are  not  the  tints  of  the  human  face,  nor  are  they  subjected  to 
any  principle  of  light  and  shade.  He  is  different  from  Rem- 
brandt or  Titian.  The  English  school,  formed  on  Sir  Joshua's 
theory,  give  neither  the  finishing  of  the  parts  nor  the  effect  of  the 
whole,  but  an  inexplicable  dumb  mass  without  distinction  or 
meaning.  They  do  not  do  as  Denner  did,  and  think  that  not  to 
do  as  he  did  is  to  do  as  Titian  and  Rembrandt  did  ;  I  do  not  know 
whether  they  would  take  it  as  a  compliment  to  be  supposed  to  imi- 
tate nature.  Some  few  artists,  it  must  be  said,  have  "  of  late 
reformed  this  indifferently  among  us  !  Oh  !  let  them  reform  it  al- 
together !"  I  have  no  doubt  they  would  if  they  could  ;  but  I  have 
some  doubts  whether  they  can  or  not.  Before  I  proceed  to  con- 
sider the  question  of  beauty  and  grandeur  as  it  relates  to  the  se- 
lection of  form,  I  will  quote  a  few  passages  from  Sir  Joshua  with 
reference  to  what  has  been  said  on  the  imitation  of  particular  ob- 
jects. In  the  Third  Discourse  he  observes,  "  I  will  now  add  that 
nature  herself  is  not  to  be  too  closely  copied.  ...  A  mere  copier 
of  nature  can  never  produce  anything  great  ;  can  never  raise  and 
enlarge  the  conceptions,  or  warm  the  heart  of  the  spectator.  The 
wish  of  the  genuine  painter  must  be  more  extensive:  instead  of 
endeavoring  to  amuse  mankind  with  the  minute  neatness  of  his 
imitations,  he  must  endeavor  to  improve  them  by  the  grandeur 
of   his    ideas;     instead    of   seeking    praise    by    deceiving    the 


208  TABLE  TALK 


superficial  sense  of  the  spectator,  he  must  strive  for  fame  by  capti- 
vating the  imagination." — Vol.  i.,  p.  53. 

From  this  passage  it  would  surely  seem  that  there  was  nothing 
in  nature  but  minute  neatness  and  superficial  effect :  nothing  great 
in  her  style,  for  an  imitator  of  it  can  produce  nothing  great ;  no- 
thing "  to  enlarge  the  conceptions  or  warm  the  heart  of  the  spec- 
tator." 

"  What  word  hath  passed  thy  lips,  Adam  severe  !" 

All  that  is  truly  grand  or  excellent  is  a  figment  of  the  imagina- 
tion, a  vapid  creation  out  of  nothing,  a  pure  effect  of  overlooking 
and  scorning  the  minute  neatness  of  natural  objects.  This  will 
not  do.  Again,  Sir  Joshua  lays  it  down  without  any  qualification 
that 

"  The  whole  beauty  and  grandeur  of  the  art  consists  in 
being  able  to  get  above  all  singular  forms,  local  customs,  peculiar- 
ities, and  details  of  every  kind," — Page  58. 

Yet  at  p.  82  we  find  him  acknowledging  a  different  opinion. 

"  I  am  very  ready  to  allow"  (he  says  in  speaking  of  history- 
painting)  "  that  some  circumstances  of  minuteness  and  particu- 
larity frequently  tend  to  give  an  air  of  truth  to  a  piece,  and  to 
interest  the  spectator  in  an  extraordinary  manner.  Such  circum- 
stances therefore  cannot  wholly  be  rejected  :  but  if  there  be  any- 
thing in  the  Art  which  requires  peculiar  nicety  Of  discernment,  it 
is  the  disposition  of  these  minute  circumstantial  parts ;  which, 
according  to  the  judgment  employed  in  the  choice,  become  so  use- 
ful to  truth  or  so  injurious  to  grandeur." — Page  82. 

That's  true  ;  but  the  sweeping  clause  against  "  all  particulari- 
ties and  details  of  every  kind  "  is  clearly  got  rid  of.  The  unde- 
cided state  of  Sir  Joshua's  feelings  on  this  subject  of  the  incompa- 
tibility between  the  whole  and  the  details  is  strikingly  manifested 
in  two  short  passages  which  follow  each  other  in  the  space  of  two 
pages.  Speaking  of  some  pictures  of  Paul  Veronese  and  Rubens 
as  distinguished  by  the  dexterity  and  the  unity  of  style  displayed 
in  them,  he  adds — 

"  It  is  by  this  and  this  alone,  that  the  mechanical  power  is  en- 
nobled, and  raised  much  above  its  natural  rank.  And  it  appears 
to  me,  that  with  propriety  it  acquires  this  character,  as  an  in- 


ON  SIR  JOSHUA  REYNOLDS'S  DISCOURSES.  *0S 


stanoe  of  that  superiority  with  which  mind  predominates  over 
matter,  by  contracting  into  one  whole  what  nature  has  made  mul- 
tifarious."— Vol.  ii.,  p.  63. 

This  would  imply  that  the  principle  of  unity  and  integrity  is 
only  in  the  mind,  and  that  nature  is  a  heap  of  disjointed,  discon- 
nected particulars,  a  chaos  of  points  and  atoms.  In  the  very  next 
page,  the  following  sentence  occurs — 

"  As  painting  is  an  art,  they"  (the  ignorant)  "  think  they  ought 
to  be  pleased  in  proportion  as  they  see  that  art  ostentatiously  dis- 
played ;  they  will  from  this  supposition  prefer  neatness,  high 
finishing,  and  gaudy  coloring,  to  the  truth,  simplicity  and  unity 
of  nature." 

Befoie,  neatness  and  high  finishing  were  supposed  to  belong 
exclusively  to  the  littleness  of  nature,  but  here  truth,  simplicity 
and  unity  are  her  characteristics.  Soon  after,  Sir  Joshua  says, 
"  I  should  be  sorry  if  what  has  been  said  should  be  understood  to 
have  any  tendency  to  encourage  that  carelessness  which  leaves 
work  in  an  unfinished  state.  I  commend  nothing  for  the  want  of 
exactness ;  I  mean  to  point  out  that_  kind  of  exactness  which  is 
the  best,  and  which  is  alone  truly  to  be  so  esteemed.'-' — Vol.  ii., 
p.  65.  This  Sir  Joshua  has  already  told  us  consists  in  getting 
above  "  all  particularities  and  details  of  every  kind."  Once  more 
we  find  it  is  stated  that 

"  It  is  in  vain  to  attend  to  the  variation  of  tints,  if  in  that  atten- 
tention  the  general  hue  of  flesh  is  lost ;  or  to  finish  ever  so  mi- 
nutely the  parts,  if  the  masses  are  not  observed,  or  the  whole  not 
well  put  together." 

Nothing  can  be  truer  :  but  why  always  suppose  the  two  things 
at  variance  with  each  other  ? 

Titian's  manner  was  then  new  to  the  world,  but  that  unshaken 
truth  on  which  it  is  founded,  has  fixed  it  as  a  model  to  all  suc- 
ceeding painters  ;  and  those  who  will  examine  into  the  artifice, 
will  find  it  to  consist  in  the  power  of  generalizing,  and  in  the 
shortness  and  simplicity  of  the  means  employed." — Page  51. 

Titian's  real  excellence  consisted  in  the  power  of  generalizing 
and  of  individualizing  at  the  same  time  :  if  it  were  merely  the 
former,  it  would  be  difficult  to  account  for  the  error  immediately 

SECOND    SERIES PART  I.  15 


210  TABLE  TALK. 


after  pointed  out  by  Sir  Joshua.     He  says  in  the  very  next  para- 
graph : 

"  Many  artists,  as  Vasari  likewise  observes,  have  ignorantly 
imagined  they  are  imitating  the  manner  of  Titian,  when  they 
leave  their  colors  rough,  and  neglect  the  detail :  but  not  possess- 
ing the  principles  on  which  he  wrought,  they  have  produced 
what  he  calls  goffe  pitture,  absurd,  foolish  pictures." — Ibid.,  p.  54. 

Many  artists  have  also  imagined  they  were  following  the  direc- 
tions of  Sir  Joshua  when  they  did  the  same  thing,  that  is,  neglected 
the  detail,  and  produced  the  same  results,  vapid  generalities, 
absurd,  foolish  pictures. 

I  will  only  give  two  short  passages  more,  and  have  done  with 
this  part  of  the  subject.  I  am  anxious  to  confront  Sir  Joshua 
with  his  own  authority. 

"  The  advantage  of  this  method  of  considering  objects  (as  a 
whole)  is  what  I  wish  now  more  particularly  to  enforce.  At  the 
same  time  I  do  not  forget,  that  a  painter  must  have  the  power  of 
contracting  as  well  as  dilating  his  sight ;  because  he  that  does 
not  at  all  express  particulars,  expresses  nothing  ;  yet  it  is  certain 
that  a  nice  discrimination  of"minute  circumstances,  and  a  puncti- 
lious delineation  of  them,  whatever  excellence  it  may  have  (and 
I  do  not  mean  to  detract  from  it),  never  did  confer  on  the  artist 
the  character  of  Genius." — Vol.  ii.,  p.  44. 

At  page  53,  we  find  the  following  words  . 

"  Whether  it  is  the  human  figure,  and  animal,  or  even  inani- 
mate objects,  there  is  nothing,  however  unpromising  in  appear- 
ance, but  may  be  raised  into  dignity,  convey  sentiment,  and  pro- 
duce emotion,  in  the  hands  of  a  painter  of  genius.  What  was 
said  of  Virgil,  that  he  threw  even  the  dung  about  the  ground  with 
an  air  of  dignity,  may  be  applied  to  Titian  ;  whatever  he  touched, 
however  naturally  mean,  and  habitually  familiar,  by  a  kind  of 
magic  he  invested  with  grandeur  and  importance."  No,  not  by 
magic,  but  by  seeking  and  finding  in  individual  nature,  and  com- 
bined with  details  of  every  kind,  that  grace  and  grandeur  and 
unity  of  effect  which  Sir  Joshua  supposes  to  be  a  mere  creation 
of  the  artist's  brain !  Titian's  practice  was,  I  conceive,  to  give 
general  appearances  with  individual  forms  and  circumstances : 
Sir  Joshua's  theory  goes  too  often,  and  in  its  prevailing  bias,  to 


ON  SIR  JOSHUA  REYNOLDS'S  DISCOURSES.  211 

separate  the  two  things  as  inconsistent  with  each  other,  and  thereby 
to  destroy  or  bring  into  question  that  union  of  striking  effect  with 
accuracy  of  resemblance  in  which  the  essence  of  sound  art  (as 
far  as  relates  to  imitation)  consists. 

Farther,  as  Sir  Joshua  is  inclined  to  merge  the  details  of  indi- 
vidual objects  in  general  effect,  so  he  is  resolved  to  reduce  all 
beauty  or  grandeur  in  natural  objects  to  a  central  form  or  abstract 
idea  of  a  certain  class,  so  as  to  exclude  all  peculiarities  or  devia- 
tions from  this  ideal  standard  as  unfit  subjects  for  the  artist's  pen- 
cil, and  as  polluting  his  canvas  with  deformity.  As  the  former 
principle  went  to  destroy  all  exactness  and  solidity  in  particular 
things,  this  goes  to  confound  all  variety,  distinctness,  and  charac- 
teristic force  in  the  broader  scale  of  nature.  There  is  a  principle 
of  conformity  in  nature  or  of  something  in  common  between  a 
number  of  individuals  of  the  same  class,  but  there  is  also  a  prin- 
ciple of  contrast,  of  discrimination  and  identity,  which  is  equally 
essential  in  the  system  of  the  universe  and  in  the  structure  of  our 
ideas  both  of  art  and  nature.  Sir  Joshua  would  hardly  neutralize 
the  tints  of  the  rainbow  to  produce  a  dingy  grey,  as  a  medium  or 
central  color :  why  then  should  he  neutralize  all  features,  forms, 
&c,  to  produce  an  insipid  ^monotony  ?  He  does  not  indeed  con- 
sider his  theory  of  beauty  as  applicable  to  color,  which  he  well 
understood,  but  insists  upon,  and  literally  enforces  it  as  to  form 
and  ideal  conceptions,  of  which  he  knew  comparatively  little, 
and  where  his  authority  is  more  questionable.  I  will  not  in  this 
place  undertake  to  show  that  his  theory  of  a  middle  form  (as  the 
standard  of  taste  and  beauty)  is  not  true  of  the  outline  of  the 
human  face  and  figure  or  other  organic  bodies,  though  I  think 
that  even  there  it  is  only  one  principle  or  condition  of  beauty ; 
but  I  do  say  that  it  has  little  or  nothing  to  do  with  those  other 
capital  parts  of  painting,  color,  character,  expression,  and  gran- 
deur of  conception.  Sir  Joshua  himself  contends  that  "beauty 
in  creatures  of  the  same  species  is  the  medium  or  centre  of  all 
its  various  forms  ;"  and  he  maintains  that  grandeur  is  the  same 
abstraction  of  the  species  in  the  individual.  Therefore  beauty 
and  grandeur  must  be  the  same  thing,  which  they  are  not ;  so 
that  this  definition  must  be  faulty.  Grandeur  I  should  suppose 
to  imply  something  that  elevates  and  expands  the  mind,  which  ia 


212  TABLE  TALK. 


chiefly  power  or  magnitude.  Beauty  is  that  which  soothes  and 
melts  it,  and  its  source  I  apprehend  is  a  certain  harmony,  soft- 
ness, and  gradation  of  form,  within  the  limits  of  our  customary 
associations,  no  doubt,  or  of  what  we  expect  of  certain  species, 
but  not  independent  of  every  other  consideration.  Our  critic 
himself  confesses  of  Michael  Angelo,  whom  he  regards  as  the 
pattern  of  the  great  and  sublime  style,  that  "  his  people  are  a  supe 
rior  order  of  beings ;  there  is  nothing  about  them,  nothing  in  the 
air  of  their  actions  or  their  attitudes,  or  the  style  or  cast  of  their 
limbs  or  features,  that  reminds  us  of  their  belonging  to  our  own 
species.  Raffaelle's  imagination  is  not  so  elevated  :  his  figures 
are  not  so  much  disjoined  from  our  own  diminutive  race  of  beings, 
though  his  ideas  are  chaste,  noble,  and  of  great  conformity  to 
their  subjects.  Michael  Angelo's  works  have  a  strong,  peculiar, 
and  marked  character :  they  seem  to  proceed  from  his  own  mind 
entirely,  and  that  mind  so  rich  and  abundant,  that  he  never  needed 
or  seemed  to  disdain  to  look  abroad  for  foreign  help.  Raffaelle's 
materials  are  generally  borrowed,  though  the  noble  structure  is 
his  own."  Fifth  Discourse.  How  does  all  this  accord  with  the 
same  writer's  favorite  theory  that  all  beauty,  all  grandeur,  and 
all  excellence,  consist  in  an  approximation  to  that  central  form 
or  habitual  idea  of  mediocrity,  from  which  every  deviation  is  so 
much  deformity  and  littleness  ?  Michael  Angelo's  figures  are 
raised  above  our  diminutive  race  of  beings,  yet  they  are  con- 
fessedly the  standard  of  sublimity  in  what  regards  the  human 
form.  Grandeur  then  admits  of  an  exaggeration  of  our  habitual 
impressions ;  and  "  the  strong,  marked,  and  peculiar  character 
which  Michael  Angelo  has  at  the  same  time  given  to  his  works," 
does  not  take  away  from  it.  This  is  fact  against  argument.  I 
would  take  Sir  Joshua's  word  for  the  goodness  of  a  picture,  and 
for  its  distinguishing  properties,  sooner  than  I  would  for  an  abstract 
metaphysical  theory.  Our  artist  also  speaks  continually  of  high 
and  low  subjects.  There  can  be  no  distinction  of  this  kind  upon 
his  principle,  that  the  standard  of  taste  is  the  adhering  to  the  cen- 
tral form  of  each  species,  and  that  every  species  is  in  itself 
equally  beautiful.  The  painter  of  flowers,  of  shells,  or  of  any- 
thing  else,  is  equally  elevated  with  Raphael  or  Michael,  if  he 
adheres  to  the  generic  or  established  form  of  what  he  paints  :  the 


ON  SIR  JOSHUA  REYNOLDS'S  DISCOURSES.  213 


rest,  according  to  this  definition,  is  a  matter  of  indifference. 
There  must  therefore  be  something  besides  the  central  or  custo- 
mary form  to  account  for  the  difference  of  dignity,  for  the  high 
and  low  style  in  nature  or  in  art.  Michael  Angelo's  figures,  we 
are  told,  are  more  than  ordinarily  grand  :  why,  by  the  same  rule, 
may  not  Raphael's  be  more  than  ordinarily  beautiful,  have  more 
than  ordinary  softness,  symmetry,  and  grace  ?  Character  and 
expression  are  still  less  included  in  the  present  theory.  All  cha- 
racter is  a  departure  from  the  common-place  form  ;  and  Sir 
Joshua  makes  no  scruple  to  declare  that  expression  destroys 
beauty.     Thus  he  says, 

"  If  you  mean  to  preserve  the  most  perfect  beauty  in  its  most 
perfect  state,  you  cannot  express  the  passions,  all  of  which  pro- 
duce distortion  and  deformity,  more  or  less,  in  the  most  beautiful 
faces."— Vol.  i.,  p.  118. 

He  goes  on — "  Guido,  from  want  of  choice  in  adapting  his 
subject  to  his  ideas  and  his  powers,  or  from  attempting  to  preserve 
beauty  where  it  could  not  be  preserved,  has  in  this  respect  suc- 
ceeded very  ill.  His  figures  are  often  engaged  in  subjects  that 
required  great  expression :  yet  his  Judith  and  Holofernes,  the 
daughter  of  Herodias  with  the  Baptist's  head,  the  Andromeda,  and 
some  even  of  the  Mothers  of  the  Innocents,  have  little  more  ex- 
pression than  his  Venus  attired  by  the  Graces." — Ibid. 

What  a  censure  is  this  passed  upon  Guido,  and  what  a  con- 
demnation of  his  own  theory,  which  would  reduce  and  level  all 
that  is  truly  great  and  praiseworthy  in  art  to  this  insipid,  tasteless 
standard,  by  setting  aside  as  illegitimate  all  that  does  not  come 
within  the  middle,  central  form !  Yet  Sir  Joshua  judges  of  Ho- 
garth as  he  deviates  from  this  standard,  not  as  he  excels  in  indi- 
vidual character,  which  he  says  is  only  good  or  tolerable  as  i* 
partakes  of  general  nature ;  and  he  might  accuse  Michael  An 
gelo  and  Raphael,  the  one  for  his  grandeur  of  style,  the  other  foi 
his  expression ;  for  neither  are  what  he  sets  up  as  the  goal  of 
perfection.  I  will  just  stop  to  remark  here,  that  Sir  Joshua  has 
committed  himself  very  strangely  in  speaking  of  the  character 
and  expression  to  be  found  in  the  Greek  statues.  He  says  in  one 
place — 

"  I  cannot  quit  the  Apollo,  without  making  one  observation  on 


214  TABLE  TALK. 

the  character  of  this  figure.  He  is  supposed  to  have  just  dis- 
charged his  arrow  at  the  Python ;  and  by  the  head  retreating  a 
little  towards  the  right  shoulder,  he  appears  attentive  to  its  eficct. 
What  I  would  remark,  is  the  difference  of  this  attention  from  that 
of  the  Discobolus,  who  is  engaged  in  the  same  purpose,  watching 
the  effect  of  his  Discus.  The  graceful,  negligent,  though  animat 
ed  air  of  the  one,  and  the  vulgar  eagerness  of  the  other,  furnish 
an  instance  of  the  judgment  of  the  ancient  Sculptors  in  their  nice 
discrimination  of  character.  They  are  both  equally  true  to  nature, 
and  equally  admirable." — Vol.  ii.,  p.  21. 

After  a  few  observations  on  the  limited  means  of  the  art  of 
Sculpture,  and  the  inattention  of  the  ancients  to  almost  every, 
thing  but  form,  we  meet  with  the  following  passage  : — 

"  Those  who  think  Sculpture  can  express  more  than  we  have 
allowed  may  ask,  by  what  means  we  discover,  at  the  first  glance, 
the  character  that  is  represented  in  a  Bust,  a  Cameo,  or  Intaglio  ? 
I  suspect  it  will  be  found,  on  close  examination,  by  him  who  is 
resolved  not  to  see  more  than  he  really  does  see,  that  the  figures 
are  distinguished  by  their  insignia  more  than  by  any  variety  of 
form  or  beauty.  Take  from  Apollo  his  Lyre,  from  Bacchus  his 
Thyrsus  and  Vine-leaves,  and  Meleager  the  Boar's  Head,  and 
there  will  remain  little  or  no  difference  in  their  characters.  In  a 
Juno,  Minerva,  or  Flora,  the  idea  of  the  artist  seems  to  have  gone 
no  further  than  representing  perfect  beauty,  and  afterwards 
adding  the  proper  attributes,  with  a  total  indifference  to  which 
they  gave  them." 

[What  then  becomes  of  that  "  nice  discrimination  of  character" 
for  which  our  author  has  just  before  celebrated  them  ?} 

"  Thus  John  De  Bologna,  after  he  had  finished  a  group  of  a 
young  man  holding  up  a  young  woman  in  his  arms,  with  an  old 
man  at  his  feet,  called  his  friends  together,  to  tell  him  what  name 
he  should  give  it,  and  it  was  agreed  to  call  it  The  Rape  of  the 
Sabines  ;  and  this  is  the  celebrated  group  which  now  stands 
before  the  old  Palace  at  Florence.  The  figures  have  the  same 
general  expression  'which  is  to  be  found  in  most  of  the  antique 
Sculpture  ;  and  yet  it  would  be  no  wonder,  if  future  critics 
should  find  out  delicacy  of  expression  which  was  never  intended  ; 
and  go  so  far  as  to  see,  in  the  old  man's  countenance,  the  exac 


ON  SIR  JOSHUA  REYNOLDS'S  DISCOURSES.  215 

relation  which  he  bore  to  the  woman  who  appears  to  be  taken 
from  him." — Ibid.,  p.  25. 

So  it  is  that  Sir  Joshua's  theory  seems  to  rest  on  an  inclined 
plane,  and  is  always  glad  of  an  excuse  to  slide,  from  the  severity 
of  truth  and  nature,  into  the  milder  and  more  equable  regions  of 
insipidity  and  inanity !  I  am  sorry  to  say  so,  but  so  it  appears  to 
me. 

I  confess,  it  strikes  me  as  a  self-evident  truth  that  variety  or 
contrast  is  as  essential  a  principle  in  art  and  nature  as  uniform- 
ity, and  as  necessary  to  make  up  the  harmony  of  the  universe 
and  the  contentment  of  the  mind.  Who  would  destroy  the  shift- 
ing effects  of  light  and  shade,  the  sharp,  lively  opposition  of  colors 
in  the  same  or  in  different  objects,  the  streaks  in  a  flower,  the 
stains  in  a  piece  of  marble,  to  reduce  all  to  the  same  neutral,  dead 
coloring,  the  same  middle  tint  ?  Yet  it  is  on  this  principle  that 
Sir  Joshua  would  get  rid  of  all  variety,  character,  expression,  and 
picturesque  effect  in  forms,  or  at  least  measure  the  worth  or  the 
spuriousness  of  all  these  according  to  their  reference  to  or  depart- 
ure from  a  given  or  average  standard.  Surely,  nature  is  more 
liberal,  art  is  wider  than  Sir  Joshua's  theory.  Allow  (for  the  sake 
of  argument)  that  all  forms  are  in  themselves  indifferent,  and  that 
beauty  or  the  sense  of  pleasure  in  forms  can  therefore  only  arise 
from  customary  association,  or  from  that  middle  impression  to 
which  they  all  tend  :  yet  this  cannot  by  the  same  rule  apply  to 
other  things.  Suppose  there  is  no  capacity  in  form  to  affect  the 
mind  except  from  its  corresponding  to  previous  expectation,  the 
same  thing  cannot  be  said  of  power  or  grandeur.  No  one  can  say 
that  the  idea  of  power  does  not  affect  the  mind  with  the  sense  of 
awe  and  sublimity.  That  is,  power  and  weakness,  grandeur  and 
littleness,  are  not  indifferent  things,  the  perfection  of  which  con- 
sists in  a  medium  between  both.  Again,  expression  is  not  a  thing 
indifferent  in  itself,  which  derives  its  value  or  its  interest  solely 
from  its  conformity  to  a  neutral  standard.  Who  would  neutralize 
the  expression  of  pleasure  and  pain  1  Or  say  that  the  passions 
of  the  human  mind,  pity,  love,  joy,  sorrow,  &c,  are  only  inter- 
esting to  the  imagination  and  worth  the  attention  of  the  artist,  as 
he  can  reduce  them  to  an  equivocal  state  whicn  is  neither  pleasant 
nor  painful,  neither  one  thing  nor  the  o'her  ?     Or  who  would  stop 


216  TABLE  TALK. 


short  of  the  utmost  refinement,  precision,  and  force  in  the  deline- 
ation of  each  ?  Ideal  expression  is  not  neutral  expression,  but 
extreme  expression.  Again,  character  is  a  thing  of  peculiarity,  of 
striking  contrast,  of  distinction,  and  not  of  uniformity.  It  is  ne- 
cessarily opposed  to  Sir  Joshua's  exclusive  theorv,  and  yet  it  is 
surely  a  curious  and  interesting  field  of  speculation  for  the  human 
mind.  Lively,  spirited  discrimination  of  character  is  one  source 
of  gratification  to  the  lover  of  nature  and  art,  which  it  could  not 
be,  if  all  truth  and  excellence  consisted  in  rejecting  individual 
traits.  Ideal  character  is  not  common-place,  but  consistent  cha- 
racter marked  throughout,  which  may  take  place  in  history  or 
portrait.  Historical  truth  in  a  picture  is  the  putting  the  different 
features  of  the  face  or  muscles  of  the  body  into  consistent  action. 
The  picturesque  altogether  depends  on  particular  points  or  quali- 
ties of  an  object,  projecting  as  it  were  beyond  the  middle  line  of 
beauty,  and  catching  the  eye  of  the  spectator.  It  was  less,  how- 
ever, my  intention  to  hazard  any  speculations  of  my  own,  than  to 
confirm  the  common-sense  feelings  on  the  subject  by  Sir  Joshua's 
own  admissions  in  different  places.  In  the  Tenth  Discourse, 
speaking  of  some  objections  to  the  Apollo,  he  has  these  remark- 
able words : — 

"  In  regard  to  the  last  objection  (viz.  that  the  lower  half  of 
the  figure  is  longer  than  just  proportion  allows)  it  must  be  re- 
membered, that  Apollo  is  here  in  the  exertion  of  one  of  his  pecu- 
liar powers,  which  is  swiftness ;  he  has  therefore  that  proportion 
which  is  best  adapted  to  that  character.  This  is  no  more  incor. 
rectness,  than  where  there  is  given  to  an  Hercules  an  extraordi- 
nary swelling  and  strength  of  muscles." — Vol.  ii.,  p.  20. 

Strength  and  activity  then  do  not  depend  on  the  middle  form  ; 
and  the  middle  form  is  to  be  sacrificed  to  the  representation  of 
these  positive  qualities.  Character  is  thus  allowed  not  only  to  be 
an  integrant  part  of  the  antique  and  classical  style  of  art,  but 
even  to  take  precedence  of  and  set  aside  the  abstract  idea  of 
beauty.  Little  more  would  be  required  to  justify  Hogarth  in  his 
Gothic  resolution,  that  if  he  were  to  make  a  figure  of  Charon,  he 
would  give  him  bandy  legs,  because  watermen  are  generally 
bandy-legged.  It  is  very  well  to  talk  of  the  abstract  idea  of  a 
man  or  of  a  God,  but  if  you  come  to  anything  like  an  intelligible 


ON  SIR  JOSHUA  REYNOUDS'S  DISCOURSES.  217 

proposition,  you  must  either  individualize  and  define,  or  destroy 
the  very  idea  you  contemplate.  Sir  Joshua  goes  into  this  ques- 
tion at  considerable  length  in  the  Third  Discourse. 

"  To  the  principle  I  have  laid  down,  that  the  idea  of  beauty  in 
each  species  of  beings  is  an  invariable  one,  it  may  be  objected," 
he  says,  "  that  in  every  particular  species  there  are  various  cen- 
tral forms,  which  are  separate  and  distinct  from  each  other,  and 
yet  are  undeniably  beautiful ;  that  in  the  human  figure,  foi 
instance,  the  beauty  of  Hercules  is  one,  of  the  Gladiator  another, 
of  the  Apollo  another,  which  makes  so  many  different  ideas  of 
beauty.  It  is  true,  indeed,  that  these  figures  are  each  perfect  in 
their  kind,  though  of  different  characters  and  proportions ;  but 
still  none  of  them  is  the  representation  of  an  individual,  but  of  a 
class.  And  as  there  is  one  general  form,  which,  as  I  have  said, 
belongs  to  the  human  kind  at  large,  so  in  each  of  these  classes 
there  is  one  common  idea  which  is  the  abstract  of  the  various  indi- 
vidual forms  belonging  to  that  class.  Thus,  though  the  forms  of 
childhood  and  age  differ  exceedingly,  there  is  a  common  form  in 
childhood,  and  a  common  form  in  age,  which  is  the  more  perfect 
as  it  is  remote  from  all  peculiarities.  But  I  must  add  further,  that 
though  the  most  perfect  forms  of  each  of  the  general  divisions  of 
the  human  figure  are  ideal,  and  superior  to  any  individual  form  of 
that  class  ;  yet  the  highest  perfection  of  the  human  figure  is  not 
to  be  found  in  any  of  them.  It  is  not  in  the  Hercules,  nor  in  the 
Gladiator,  nor  in  the  Apollo ;  but  in  that  form  which  is  taken  from 
all,  and  which  partakes  equally  of  the  activity  of  the  Gladiator, 
of  the  delicacy  of  the  Apollo,  and  of  the  muscular  strength  of  the 
Hercules.  For  perfect  beauty  in  any  species  must  combine  all 
the  characters  which  are  beautiful  in  that  species.  It  cannot  con- 
sist in  any  one  to  the  exclusion  of  the  rest :  no  one,  therefore, 
must  be  predominant,  that  no  one  may  be  deficient." — Vol.  ii., 
n.  64. 

Sir  Joshua  here  supposes  the  distinctions  of  classes  and  charac- 
ter to  be  necessarily  combined  with  the  general  leading  idea  of  a 
middle  form.  This  middle  form  is  not  to  confound  age,  sex,  cir- 
cumstance, under  one  sweeping  abstraction :  but  we  must  limit 
the  genera1  idea  by  certain  specific  differences  and  characteristic 
marks,  belonging  to  the  several  subordinate  divisions  and  ramifi- 


218  TABLE  TALK 


cations  of  each  class.  This  is  enough  to  show  that  there  is  a  prin- 
ciple of  individuality  as  well  as  of  abstraction  inseparable  from 
works  of  art  as  well  as  nature.  We  are  to  keep  the  human  form 
distinct  from  that  of  other  living  beings,  that  of  men  from  that  of 
women ;  we  are  to  distinguish  between  age  and  infancy,  between 
thoughtfulness  and  gaiety,  between  strength  and  softness.  Where 
is  this  to  stop  ?  But  Sir  Joshua  turns  round  upon  himself  in  this 
very  passage,  and  says,  "  No  :  we  are  to  unite  the  strength  of  the 
Hercules  with  the  delicacy  of  the  Apollo  ;  for  perfect  beauty  in 
any  species  must  combine  all  the  characters  which  are  beautiful 
in  that  species."  Now  if  these  different  characters  are  beautiful 
in  themselves,  why  not  give  them  for  their  own  sakes  and  in  their 
most  striking  appearances,  instead  of  qualifying  and  softening 
them  down  in  a  neutral  form  ;  which  must  produce  a  compromise, 
not  a  union  of  different  excellences.  If  all  excess  of  beauty,  if 
all  character  is  deformity,  then  we  must  try  to  lose  it  as  fast  as 
possible  in  other  qualities.  But  if  strength  is  an  excellence,  if 
activity  is  an  excellence,  if  delicacy  is  an  excellence,  then  the 
perfection,  i.  e.  the  highest  degree  of  each  of  these  qualities  can- 
not be  attained  but  by  remaining  satisfied  with  a  less  degree  of 
the  rest.  But  let  us  hear  what  Sir  Joshua  himself  advances  on 
this  subject  in  another  part  of  the  Discourses. 

"  Some  excellences  bear  to  be  united,  and  are  improved  by 
union  :  others  are  of  a  discordant  nature  :  and  the  attempt  to 
unite  them  only  produces  a  harsh  jarring  of  incongruent  princi- 
ples. The  attempt  to  unite  contrary  excellences  (of  form,  for 
instance*)  in  a  single  figure,  can  "never  escape  degenerating  into 
the  monstrous  but  by  sinking  into  the  insipid  ;  by  taking  away  its 
marked  character,  and  weakening  its  expression. 

"  Obvious  as  these  remarks  appear,  there  are  many  writers  on 
our  art,  who  not  being  of  the  profession,  and  consequently  not 
knowing  what  can  or  cannot  be  done,  have  been  very  liberal  of 
absurd  praises  in  their  description  of  favorite  works.  They  always 
find  in  them  what  they  are  resolved  to  find.  They  praise  excel, 
lences  that  can  hardly  exist  together ;  and  above  all  things  are 
fond  of  describing  with  great  exactness  the  expression  of  a  mixed 

*  These  are  Sir  Joshua's  words. 


ON  SIR  JOSHUA  REYNOLDS'S  DISCOURSES.  719 

passion,  which  more  particularly  appears  to  me  out  of  the  reach 
of  our  art.* 

"  Such  are  many  disquisitions  which  I  have  read  on  some  of 
the  Cartoons  and  other  pictures  of  Raffaelle,  where  the  critics 
have  described  their  own  imaginations  ;  or  indeed  where  the  ex- 
cellent master  himself  may  have  attempted  this  expression  of 
passions  above  the  powers  of  the  art ;  and  has,  therefore,  by  an 
indistinct  and  imperfect  marking,  left  room  for  every  imagination 
with  equal  probability  to  find  a  passion  of  his  own.  What  has 
been,  and  what  can  be  done  in  the  art,  is  sufficiently  difficult :  we 
need  not  be  mortified  or  discouraged  at  not  being  able  to  execute 
the  conceptions  of  a  romantic  imagination.  Art  has  its  bounda- 
ries, though  imagination  has  none.  We  can  easily,  like  the  an- 
cients, suppose  a  Jupiter  to  be  possessed  of  all  those  powers  and 
perfections  which  the  subordinate  Deities  were  endowed  with 
separately.  Yet  when  they  employed  their  art  to  represent  him, 
they  confined  his  character  to  majesty  alone.  Pliny,  therefore, 
though  we  are  under  great  obligations  to  him  for  the  information 
he  has  given  us  in  relation  to  the  works  of  the  ancient  artists,  is 
very  frequently  wrong  when  he  speaks  of  them,  which  he  does 
very  often,  in  the  style  of  many  of  our  modern  connoisseurs. 
He  observes  that  in  a  statue  of  Paris,  by  Euphranor,  you  might 
discover  at  the  same  time  three  different  characters ;  the  dignity 
of  a  Judge  of  the  Goddesses,  the  Lover  of  Helen,  and  the  Con- 
queror of  Achilles.  A  statue  in  which  you  endeavor  to  unite 
stately  dignity,  youthful  elegance,  and  stern  valor,  must  surely 
possess  none  of  these  to  any  eminent  degree. 

"  From  hence  it  appears,  that  there  is  much  difficulty  as  well 
as  danger  in  an  endeavor  to  concentrate  in  a  single  subject  those 
various  powers,  which,  rising  from  various  points,  naturally  move 
in  different  directions." — Vol.  i.,  p.  120. 

What  real  clue  to  the  art  or  sound  principles  of  judging  the 
student  can  derive  from  these  contradictory  statements,  or  in  what. 
manner  it  is  possible  to  reconcile  them  one  to  the  other,  I  confess 
I  am  at  a  loss  to  discover.     As  it  appears  to  me,  all  the  varieties 

*  I  do  not  know  that :  but  I  do  not  think  the  two  passion?  could  be 
expressed  by  expressing  neither  or  something  between  both. 

27 


220  TABLE  TALK. 


of  nature  in  the  infinite  number  of  its  qualities,  combinations,  cha- 
racters,  expressions,  incidents,  &c,  rise  from  distinct  points  or 
centres,  and  must  move  in  distinct  directions,  as  the  forms  of  dif- 
ferent species  are  to  be  referred  to  a  separate  standard.  It  is  the 
object  of  art  to  bring  them  out  in  all  their  force,  clearness,  and 
precision,  and  not  to  blend  them  into  a  vague,  vapid,  nondescript 
ideal  conception,  which  pretends  to  unite,  but  in  reality  destroys. 
Sir  Joshua's  theory  limits  nature  and  paralyzes  art.  According 
to  him,  the  middle  form  or  the  average  of  our  various  impressions 
is  the  source  from  which  all  beauty,  pleasure,  interest,  imagina- 
tion springs.  I  contend,  on  the  contrary,  that  this  very  variety  is 
good  in  itself,  nor  do  I  agree  with  him  that  the  whole  of  nature  as 
it  exists  in  fact  is  stark  naught,  and  that  there  is  nothing  worthy 
of  the  contemplation  of  a  wise  man  but  that  ideal  perfection  which 
never  existed  in  the  world  nor  even  on  canvas.  There  is  some- 
thing fastidious  and  sickly  in  Sir  Joshua's  system.  His  code  of 
taste  consists  too  much  of  negations,  and  not  enough  of  positive, 
prominent  qualities.  It  accounts  for  nothing  but  the  beauty  of  the 
common  Antique,  and  hardly  for  that.  The  merit  of  Hogarth,  I 
grant,  is  different  from  that  of  the  Greek  statues  ;  but  I  deny  that 
Hogarth  is  to  be  measured  by  this  standard,  or  by  Sir  Joshua's 
middle  forms  :  he  has  powers  of  instruction  and  amusement  that 
"  rising  from  a  different  point,  naturally  move  in  a  different  direc- 
tion," and  completely  attain  their  end.  It  would  be  just  as  rea- 
sonable to  condemn  a  comedy  for  not  having  the  pathos  of  a  tra- 
gedy or  the  stateliness  of  an  epic  poem.  If  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds's 
theory  were  true,  Dr.  Johnson's  Irene  would  be  a  better  tragedy 
than  any  of  Shakspeare's. 

The  reasoning  of  the  Discourses  is,  I  think  then,  deficient  in 
the  following  particulars : 

1.  It  seems  to  imply  that  general  effect  in  a  picture  is  produced 
by  leaving  out  the  details,  whereas  the  largest  masses  and  the 
grandest  outline  are  consistent  with  the  utmost  delicacy  of  finish- 
ing in  the  parts. 

2.  It  makes  no  distinction  between  beauty  and  grandeur,  but 
refers  both  to  an  ideal  or  middle  form,  as  the  centre  of  the  various 
forms  of  the  species,  and  yet  inconsistently  attributes  the  grandeur 


ON  SIR  JOSHUA  REYNOLDS'S  DISCOURSES.  221 

of  Michael  Angelo's  style  to  the  superhuman  appearance  of  his 
prophets  and  apostles. 

3.  It  does  not  at  any  time  make  mention  of  power  or  magnitude 
in  an  object  as  a  distinct  source  of  the  sublime  (though  this  is 
acknowledged  unintentionally  in  the  case  of  Michael  Angelo, 
&c),  nor  of  softness  or  symmetry  of  form  as  a  distinct  source  of 
beauty,  independently  of,  though  still  in  connection  with  another 
source  arising  from  what  we  are  accustomed  to  expect  from  each 
individual  species. 

4.  Sir  Joshua's  theory  does  not  leave  room  for  character,  but 
rejects  it  as  an  anomaly. 

5.  It  does  not  point  out  the  source  of  expression,  but  considers 
it  as  hostile  to  beauty  ;  and  yet,  lastly,  he  allows  that  the  middle 
form,  carried  to  the  utmost  theoretical  extent,  neither  defined  by 
character,  nor  impregnated  by  passion,  would  produce  nothing  but 
vague,  insipid,  unmeaning  generality. 

In  a  word,  I  cannot  think  that  the  theory  here  laid  down  is 
clear  and  satisfactory,  that  it  is  consistent  with  itself,  that  it  ac- 
counts for  the  various  excellences  of  art  from  a  few  simple  prin- 
ciples, or  that  the  method  which  Sir  Joshua  has  pursued  in  treat- 
ing the  subject  is,  as  he  himself  expresses  it,  "  a  plain  and  honest 
method.''''  It  is,  I  fear,  more  calculated  to  baffle  and  perplex  the 
student  in  his  progress,  than  to  give  him  clear  lights  as  to  the 
object  he  should  have  in  view,  or  to  furnish  him  with  strong 
motives  of  emulation  to  attain  it. 


222  TABLE  TALK 


ESSAY  XVII. 

On  the  Qualifications  necessary  to  Success  In  Life. 

It  is  cuiious  to  consider  the  diversity  of  men's  talents,  and  the 
causes  of  their  failure  or  success,  which  are  not  less  numerous 
and  contradictory  than  their  pursuits  in  life.  Fortune  does  not 
always  smile  on  merit : — "  the  race  is  not  to  the  swift,  nor  the  battle 
to  the  strong  :"  and  even  where  the  candidate  for  wealth  or  honors 
succeeds,  it  is  as  often,  perhaps,  from  the  qualifications  which  he 
wants  as  from  those  which  he  possesses  ;  or  the  eminence  which  he 
is  lucky  enough  to  obtain,  is  owing  to  some  faculty  or  acquire- 
ment, which  neither  he  nor  anybody  else  suspected.  There  is  a 
balance  of  power  in  the  human  mind,  by  which  defects  frequently 
assist  in  furthering  our  views,  as  superfluous  excellences  are 
converted  into  the  nature  of  impediments ;  and  again,  there 
is  a  continual  substitution  of  one  talent  for  another,  through 
which  we  mistake  the  appearance  for  the  reality,  and  judge 
(by  implication)  of  the  means  from  the  end.  So  a  Minister 
of  State  wields  the  House  of  Commons  by  his  manner  alone  ; 
while  his  friends  and  his  foes  are  equally  at  a  loss  to  account 
for  his  influence,  looking  for  it  in  vain  in  the  matter  or  style 
of  his  speeches.  So  the  air  with  which  a  celebrated  barris- 
ter waved  a  white  cambric  handkerchief  passed  for  eloquence. 
So  the  buffoon  is  taken  for  a  wit.  To  be  thought  wise,  it  is  for 
the  most  part  necessary  only  to  seem  so  ;  and  the  noisy  demagogue 
is  easily  translated,  by  the  popular  voice,  into  the  orator  and 
patriot.  Qualities  take  their  color  from  those  that  are  next  to 
them,  as  the  cameleon  borrows  its  hue  from  the  nearest  object ; 
and  unable  otherwise  to  grasp  the  phantom  of  our  choice  or  our 
ambition,  we  do  well  to  lay  violent  hands  on  something  else  within 
our  reach,  which  bears  a  general  resemblance  to  it ;  and  the  im- 


QUALIFICATIONS  NECESSARY  TO  SUCCESS  IN  LIFE.    223 

pression  of  which,  in  proportion  as  the  thing  itself  is  cheap  and 
worthless,  is  likely  to  be  gross,  obvious,  striking,  and  effectual. 
The  way  to  secure  success,  is  to  be  more  anxious  about  obtaining 
than  about  deserving  it ;  the  surest  hindrance  to  it  is  to  have  too 
high  an  opinion  of  the  discernment  of  the  public.  He  who  is 
determined  not  to  be  satisfied  with  anything  short  of  perfection, 
will  never  do  anything  at  all,  either  to  please  himself  or  others. 
The  question  is  not  what  we  ought  to  do,  but  what  we  can  do  for 
the  best.  An  excess  of  modesty  is  in  fact  an  excess  of  pride,  and 
more  hurtful  to  the  individual,  and  less  advantageous  to  society, 
than  the  grossest  and  most  unblushing  vanity — 

Aspiring  to  be  Gods,  if  angels  fell, 
Aspiring  to  be  angels,  men  rebel. 

If  a  celebrated  artist  in  our  own  day  had  stayed  to  do  justice  to 
his  principal  figure  in  a  generally  admired  painting,  before  he  had 
exhibited  it,  it  would  never  have  seen  the  light.  He  has  passed 
on  to  other  things  more  within  his  power  to  accomplish,  and  more 
within  the  competence  of  the  spectators  to  understand.  They  see 
vt'hat  he  has  done,  which  is  a  great  deal — they  could  not  have 
judged  of,  or  given  him  credit  for  the  ineffable  idea  in  his  own 
mind,  which  he  might  vainly  have  devoted  his  whole  life  in 
endeavoring  to  embody.  The  picture,  as  it  is,  is  good  enough 
for  the  age  and  the  public.  If  it  had  been  ten  times  better,  its 
merits  would  have  been  thrown  away  :  and  if  it  had  been  ten  times 
better  in  the  more  refined  and  lofty  conception  of  character  and 
sentiment,  and  had  failed  in  the  more  palpable  appeal  to  the  senses 
and  prejudices  of  the  vulgar,  in  the  usual  "  appliances  and  means 
to  boot,"  it  would  never  have  done.  The  work  might  have  been 
praised  by  a  few,  a  very  few,  and  the  artist  himself  have  pined  in 
penury  and  neglect.  Mr.  Wordsworth  has  given  uc-  the  essence 
of  poetry  in  his  works,  without  the  machinery,  the  apparatus  of 
poetical  diction,  the  theatrical  pomp,  the  conventional  ornamen.j  ; 
and  we  see  what  he  has  made  of  it. 

The  way  to  fame,  through  merit  alone,  is  the  narrowest,  the 
steepest,  the  longest,  the  hardest  of  all  others — (that  ii  is  the  most 
certain  and  lasting,  is  even  a  doubt) — the  most  sterling  reputation 
is,  after  all,  but  a  species  of  imoosture.     As  for  ordinary  cases  of 


224  TABLE  TALK. 


success  and  failure,  they  depend  on  the  slightest  shades  of  charac- 
ter or  turn  of  accident — "  some  trick  not  worth  an  egg  " — 

There's  but  the  twinkling  of  a  star 
Betwixt  a  man  of  peace  and  war ; 
A  thief  and  justice,  fool  and  knave, 
A  huffing  officer  and  a  slave  ; 
A  crafty  lawyer  and  pick-pocket, 
A  great  philosopher  and  a  blockhead  ; 
A  formal  preacher  and  a  player, 
A  learned  physician  and  manslayer. 

Men  are  in  numberless  instances  qualified  for  certain  things,  for 
no  other  reason  than  because  they  are  qualified  for  nothing  else. 
Negative  merit  is  the  passport  for  negative  success.  In  common 
life,  the  narrowness  of  our  ideas  and  appetites  is  more  favorable 
to  the  accomplishment  of  our  designs,  by  confining  our  attention 
and  ambition  to  one  single  object,  than  a  greater  enlargement  of 
comprehension  or  susceptibility  of  taste,  which  (as  far  as  the  tram- 
mels of  custom  and  routine  of  business  are  concerned)  only  operate 
as  diversions  to  our  ensuring  the  main  chance  ;  and,  even  in  the  pur- 
suit of  arts  and  science,  a  dull  plodding  fellow  will  often  do  better 
than  one  of  a  more  mercurial  and  fiery  cast — the  mere  unconscious- 
ness of -his  own  deficiencies,  or  \>{  anything  beyond  what  he  him- 
self can  do,  reconciles  him  to  his  mechanical  progress,  and  enables 
him  to  perform  all  that  lies  in  his  power  with  labor  and  patience. 
By  being  content  with  mediocrity,  he  advances  beyond  it ;  where- 
as the  man  of  greater  taste  or  genius  may  be  supposed  to  fling 
down  his  pen  or  pencil  in  despair,  haunted  with  the  idea  of  unat- 
tainable excellence,  and  ends  in  being  nothing,  because  he  can- 
not be  everything  at  once.  Those  even  who  have  done  the  great- 
est things,  were  not  always  perhaps  the  greatest  men.  To  do  any 
given  work,,a  man  should  not  be  greater  in  himself  than  the  work 
he  has  to  do ;  the  faculties  which  he  has  beyond  this,  will  be 
faculties  to  let,  either,  not  used,  or  used  idly  or  unprofitably,  to 
hinder,  not  to  help.  To  do  any  one  thing  best,  there  should  be 
an  exclusiveness,  a  concentration,  a  bigotry,  a  blindness  of  attach- 
ment to  that  one  object ;  so  that  the  widest  range  of  knowledgt 
and  most  diffusive  subtlety  of  intellect  will  not  uniformly  produce 
the  most  beneficial  results; — and  the  performance  is  very  frequent- 


QUALIFICATIONS  NECESSARY  TO  SUCCESS  IN  LIFE.    225 

y  in  the  inverse  ratio,  not  only  of  the  pretensions,  as  we  might 
superficially  conclude,  but  of  the  real  capacity.  Apart  is  greater 
than  the  whole  :  and  this  old  saying  seems  to  hold  true  in  moral 
and  intellectual  questions  also — in  nearly  all  that  relates  to  the 
mind  of  man,  which  cannot  embrace  the  whole,  but  only  a  part. 

I  do  not  think  (to  give  an  instance  of  what  I  mean)  that  Mil- 
ton's  mind  was  (so  to  speak)  greater  than  the  Paradise  Lost ;  it 
was  just  big  enough  to  fill  that  mighty  mpuld  ;  the  shrine  contain- 
ed the  Godhead.  Shakspeare's  genius  was,  I  should  say,  greater 
than  anything  he  has  done,  because  it  still  soared  free  and  uncon- 
fined  beyond  whatever  he  undertook — ran  over,  and  could  not  be 
"  constrained  by  mastery  "  of  his  subject.  Goldsmith,  in  his 
Retaliation,  celebrates  Burke  as  one  who  was  kept  back  in  his 
dazzling,  wayward  career,  by  the  supererogation  of  his  talents — 

Though  equal  to  all  things,  for  all  things  unfit, 
Too  nice  for  a  statesman,  too  proud  for  a  wit. 

Dr.  Johnson,  in  Boswell's  Life,  tells  us  that  the  only  person 
whose  conversation  he  ever  sought  for  improvement  was  George 
Psalmanazar  :  yet  who  knows  anything  of  this  extraordinary  man 
now,  but  that  he  wrote  about  twenty  volumes  of  the  Universal 
History — invented  a  Formosan  alphabet  and  vocabulary — being  a 
really  learned  man,  contrived  to  pass  for  an  impostor,  and  died 
no  one  knows  how  or  where !  The  well  known  author  of  the 
"  Inquiry  concerning  Political  Justice,"  in  conversation  has  not 
a  word  to  throw  at  a  dog ;  all  the  stores  of  his  understanding  or 
genius  he  reserves  for  his  books,  and  he  has  need  of  them,  other- 
wise there  would  be  hiatus  in  manuscriptis.  He  says  little,  and 
that  little  were  better  left  alone,  being  both  dull  and  nonsensical ; 
his  talk  is  as  flat  as  a  pancake,  and  there  is  no  leaven  in  it,  he  has 
not  dough  enough  to  make  a  loaf  and  a  cake  ;  he  has  no  idea  of 
anything  till  he  has  wound  up,  like  a  clock,  not  to  speak,  but  to 
write,  and  then  he  seems  like  a  person  risen  from  sleep  or  from 
the  dead.  The  author  of  the  Diversions  of  Purley,  on  the  other 
hand,  besides  being  the  inventor  of  the  theory  of  grammar,  was  a 
politician,  a  wit,  a  master  of  conversation,  and  overflowing  with 

SECOND    SERIES. PART  I.  27 


226  TABLE  TALK. 


an  interminable  babble — that  fellow  had  cut  and  come  again  in 
him,  and 

"  Tongue  with  a  garnish  of  brains  ;" 

but  it  only  served  as  an  excuse  to  cheat  posterity  of  the  definition 
of  a  verb,  one  of  those  conversational  ruses  de  guerre  by  which  he 
put  off  his  guests  at  Wimbledom  with  some  teasing  equivoque 
which  he  would  explain  the  next  time  they  met — and  made  him 
die  at  last  with  a  nostrum  in  his  mouth !  The  late  Professor  Por- 
son  was  said  to  be  a  match  for  the  Member  for  Old  Sarum  in 
argument  and  raillery : — he  was  a  profound  scholar,  and  had  wit 
at  will — yet  what  did  he  come  to  ?  His  jests  have  evaporated 
with  the  marks  of  the  wine  on  the  tavern  table  ;  the  page  of 
Thucydides  or  iEschylus,  which  was  stamped  on  his  brain,  and 
which  he  could  read  there  with  equal  facility  backwards  or 
forwards,  is  contained,  after  his  death,  as  it  was  while  he  lived, 
just  as  well  in  the  volume  on  the  library  shelf.  The  man  of  per- 
haps the  greatest  ability  now  living  is  the  one  who  has  not  only 
done  the  least,  but  who  is  actually  incapable  of  ever  doing  anything 
worthy  of  him — unless  he  had  a  hundred  hands  to  write  with,  and  a 
hundred  mouths  to  utter  all  that  it  hath  entered  into  his  heart  to  con- 
ceive, and  centuries  before  him  to  embody  the  endless  volumes  of 
his  waking  dreams.  Cloud  rolls  over  cloud  ;  one  train  of  thought 
suggests  and  is  driven  away  by  another ;  theory  after  theory  is 
spun  out  of  the  bowels  of  his  brain,  not  like  the  spider's  web, 
compact  and  round,  a  citadel  and  a  snare,  built  for  mischief  and 
for  use  ;  but,  like  the  gossamer,  stretched  out  and  entangled  with- 
out end,  clinging  to  every  casual  object,  flitting  in  the  idle  air, 
and  glittering  only  in  the  ray  of  fancy.  No  subject  can  come 
amiss  to  him,  and  he  is  alike  attracted  and  alike  indifferent  to  all — 
he  is  not  tied  down  to  any  one  in  particular — but  floats  from  one  to 
another,  his  mind  everywhere  finding  its  level,  and  feeling  no  limit 
but  that  of  thought — now  soaring  with  its  head  above  the  stars, 
now  treading  with  fairy  feet  among  flowers,  now  winnowing  the 
air  with  winged  words — passing  from  Duns  Scotus  to  Jacob  Beh- 
men,  from  the  Kantean  philosophy  to  a  conundrum,  and  from  the 
Apocalypse  to  an  acrostic — taking  in  the  whole  range  of  poetry, 
painting,  wit,  history,  politics,  metaphysics,  criticism,  and  private 


QUALIFICATIONS  NECESSARY  TO  SUCCESS  IN  LIFE     227 

scandal — every  question  giving  birth  to  some  new  thought,  and 
every  thought  "  discoursed  in  eloquent  music,"  that  lives  only  in 
the  ear  of  fools,  or  in  the  report  of  absent  friends.  Set  him  to 
write  a  book,  and  he  belies  all  that  has  been  ever  said  about 
him — 

Ten  thousand  great  ideas  filled  his  mind, 

But  with  the  clouds  they  fled,  and  left  no  trace  behind. 

Now  there  is ,  who  never  had  an  idea  in  his  life,  and 

who  therefore  has  never  been  prevented  by  the  fastidious  refine- 
ments of  self-knowledge,  or  the  dangerous  seductions  of  the  Muse, 
from  succeeding  in  a  number  of  things  which  he  has  attempted, 
to  the  utmost  extent  of  his  dulness,  and  contrary  to  the  advice 
and  opinion  of  all  his  friends.  He  has  written  a  book  without 
being  able  to  spell,  by  dint  of  asking  questions — has  painted  dra- 
peries with  great  exactness,  which  have  passed  for  finished  por- 
traits— daubs  in  an  unaccountable  figure  or  two,  with  a  back- 
ground, and  on  due  deliberation  calls  it  history — he  is  dubbed  an 
Associate  after  being  twenty  times  black-balled,  wins  his  way  to 
the  highest  honors  of  the  Academy,  through  all  the  gradations  of 
discomfiture  and  disgrace,  and  may  end  in  being  made  a  foreign 
Count !  And  yet  (such  is  the  principle  of  distributive  justice  in 
matters  of  taste)  he  is  just  where  he  was.  We  judge  of  men  not 
by  what  they  do,  but  by  what  they  are.     Non  ex  quov/s  lignojit 

Mercurius.     Having  once  got  an  idea  of ,  it  is  impossible 

mat  anything  he  can  do  should  ever  alter  it — though  he  were  to 
paint  like  Raphael  and  Michael  Angelo,  no  one  in  the  secret 
would  give  him  credit  for  it,  and  "  though  he  had  all  knowledge, 
and  could  speak  with  the  tongues  of  angels,"  yet  without  genius 
he  would  be  nothing.  The  original  sin  of  being  what  he  is, 
renders  his  good  works  and  most  meritorious  efforts  null  and  void. 
"  You  cannot  gather  grapes  of  thorns,  nor  figs  of  thistles."  Na- 
ture still  prevails  over  art.     You  look  at ,  as  you  do  at  a 

curious  machine,  which  performs  certain  puzzling  operations,  and 
as  your  surprise  ceases,  gradually  unfolds  other  powers  which 
you  would  little  expect — but  do  what  it  will,  it  is  but  a  machine 
still ;  the  thing  is  without  a  soul ! 

Respice  jinem,  is  the  great  rule  in  all  practical  pursuits:  to 
27* 


228  TABLE  TALK. 


attain  our  journey's  end,  we  should  look  little  to  the  right 
or  to  the  left ;  the  knowledge  of  excellence  as  often  deters 
and  distracts,  as  it  stimulates  the  mind  to  exertion  ;  and  hence 
we  may  see  some  reason,  why  the  general  diffusion  of  taste 
and  liberal  arts  is  not  always  accompanied  with  an  increase  of 
individual  genius. 

As  there  is  a  degree  of  dulness  and  phlegm,  which,  in  the  long 
run,  sometimes  succeeds  better  than  the  more  noble  and  aspiring 
impulses  of  our  nature  (as  the  beagle  by  its  sure  tracing 
overtakes  the  bounding  stag),,  so  there  is  a  degree  of  animal 
spirits  and  showy  accomplishment,  which  enables  its  possessors 
"  to  get  the  start  of  the  majestic  world,"  and  bear  the  palm  alone. 
How  often  do  we  see  vivacity  and  impertinence  mistaken  for  wit ; 
fluency  for  argument ;  sound  for  sense  ;  a  loud  or  musical  voice 
for  eloquence!  Impudence  again  is  an  equivalent  for  courage; 
and  the  assumption  of  merit  and  the  possession  of  it  are  too  often 
considered  as  one  and  the  same  thing.  On  the  other  hand,  sim- 
plicity of  manner  reduces  the  person  who  cannot  so  far  forego  his 
native  disposition  as  by  any  effort  to  shake  it  off,  to  perfect  insig- 
nificance in  the  eyes  of  the  vulgar,  who,  if  you  do  not  seem  .to 
doubt  your  own  pretensions,  will  never  question  them  ;  and  on 
the  same  principle,  if  you  do  not  try  to  palm  yourself  on  them 
for  what  you  are  not,  will  never  be  persuaded  you  can  be 
anything.  Admiration,  like  mocking,  is  catching :  and  the  good 
opinion  which  gets  abroad  of  us  begins  at  home.  If  a  man  is  not 
as  much  astonished  at  his  own  acquirements — as  proud  of  and  as 
delighted  with  the  bauble,  as  others  would  be  if  put  into  sudden 
possession  of  it,  they  hold  that  true  desert  and  he  must  be 
strangers  to  each  other  :  if  he  entertains  an  idea  beyond  his  own 
immediate  profession  or  pursuit,  they  tmnk  very  wisely  he  can 
know  nothing  at  all :  if  he  does  not  play  off  the  quack  or  the  cox- 
comb upon  them  at  every  step,  they  are  confident  he  is  a  dunce 
and  a  fellow  of  no  pretensions.  It  has  been  sometimes  made  a 
matter  of  surprise  that  Mr.  Pitt  did  not  talk  politics  out  of  the 
House  ;  or  that  Mr.  Fox  conversed  like  any  one  else  on  common 
subjects ;  or  that  Walter  Scott  is  fonder  of  an  old  Scotch  ditty 
or  antiquarian  record,  than  of  listening  to  the  praises  of  the 
Author  of  Waverley.     On  the  contrary,  I  cannot  conceive  how 


QUALI1  ICATIONS  NECESSARY  TO  SUCCESS  IN  LIFE.    229 

any  one  who  feels  conscious  of  certain  powers,  should  always  be 
laboring  to  convince  others  of  the  fact ;  or  how  a  person,  to  whom 
their  exercise  is  as  familiar  as  the  breath  he  draws,  should  think 
it  worth  his  while  to  convince  them  of  what  to  him  must  seem  so 
very  simple,  and  at  the  same  time,  so  very  evident.  I  should  not 
wonder,  however,  if  the  Author  of  the  Scotch  Novels  laid  an 
undue  stress  on  the  praises  of  the  Monastery.  We  nurse  the 
ricketty  child,  and  prop  up  our  want  of  self-confidence  by  the 
opinion  of  friends.  A  man  (unless  he  is  a  fool)  is  never  vain, 
but  when  he  stands  in  need  of  the  tribute  of  adulation  to  strengthen 
the  hollowness  of  his  pretensions ;  nor  conceited,  but  when  he  can 
find  no  one  to  flatter  him,  and  is  obliged  secretly  to  pamper  his 
good  opinion  of  himself,  to  make  up  for  the  want  of  sympathy  in 
others.  A  damned  author  has  the  highest  sense  of  his  own 
merits,  and  an  inexpressible  contempt  for  the  judgment  of  his 
contemporaries ;  in  the  same  manner  that  an  actor  who  is  hissed 
or  hooted  from  the  stage,  creeps  into  exquisite  favor  with  himself, 
in  proportion  to  the  blindness  and  injustice  of  the  public.  A 
prose-writer,  who  has  been  severely  handled  in  the  Reviews,  will 
try  to  persuade  himself  that  there  is  nobody  else  who  can  write  a 
word  of  English  :  and  we  have  seen  a  poet  of  our  time,  whose 
works  have  been  much,  but  not  (as  he  thought)  sufficiently 
admired,  undertake  formally  to  prove,  that  no  poet,  who  deserved 
the  name  of  one,  was  ever  popular  in  his  life-time,  or  scarcely 
after  his  death ! 

There  is  nothing  that  floats  a  man  sooner  into  the  tide  of  repu- 
tation, or  oftener  passes  current  for  genius,  than  what  might  be 
called  constitutional  talent.  A  man  without  this,  whatever  may  be 
his  worth  or  real  powers,  will  no  more  get  on  in  the  world  than  a 
leaden  Mercury  will  fly  into  the  air ;  as  any  pretender  with  it, 
and  with  no  one  quality  beside  to  recommend  him,  will  be  sure 
either  to  blunder  upon  success,  or  will  set  failure  at  defiance. 
By  constitutional  talent  I  mean,  in  general,  the  warmth  and  vigor 
given  to  a  man's  ideas  and  pursuits  by  his  bodily  stamina,  by 
mere  physical  organization.  A  weak  mind  in  a  sound  body  is 
better,  or  at  least  more  profitable,  than  a  sound  mind  in  a  weak 
and  crazy  conformation.  How  many  instances  might  I  quote ! 
Let  a  man  have  a  quick  circulation,  a  good  digestion,  the  bulk, 


*30  TABLE  TALK. 


and  thews,  and  sinews  of  a  man,  and  the  alacrity,  the  unthinking 
confidence  inspired  by  these ;  and  without  an  atom,  a  shadow  of 
the  mens  divinior,  he  shall  strut,  and  swagger,  and  vapor  and 
'ostle  his  way  through  life,  and  have  the  upper-hand  of  those  who 
are  his  betters  in  everything  but  health  and  strength.  His  jeste 
shall  be  echoed  with  loud  laughter,  because  his  own  lungs  begir 
to  crow  like  chanticleer,  before  he  has  uttered  them  ;  while  fc 
little  hectic  nervous  humorist  shall  stammer  out  an  admirable 
conceit  that  is  damned  in  the  doubtful  delivery — vox  faucibus 
h(Bsil. — The  first  shall  tell  a  story  as  long  as  his  arm,  without 
interruption,  while  the  latter  stops  short  in  his  attempts  from  mere 
weakness  of  chest :  the  one  shall  be  empty  and  noisy  and  suc- 
cessful in  argument,  putting  forth  the  most  common-place  things 
"  with  a  confident  brow  and  a  throng  of  words,  that  come  with 
more  than  impudent  sauciness  from  him,"  while  the  latter  shrinks 
from  an  observation  "  too  deep  for  his  hearers,"  into  the  delicacy 
and  unnoticed  retirement  of  his  own  mind.  The  one  shall  never 
feel  the  want  of  intellectual  resources,  because  he  can  back  his 
opinions  with  his  person ;  the  other  shall  lose  the  advantages  of 
mental  superiority,  seek  to  anticipate  contempt  by  giving  offence, 
court  mortification  in  despair  of  popularity,  and  even  in  the  midst 
of  public  and  private  admiration,  extorted  slowly  by  incontrover- 
tible proofs  of  genius,  shall  never  get  rid  of  the  awkward,  uneasy 
sense  of  personal  weakness  and  insignificance,  contracted  by  early 
and  long-continued  habit.  „  What  imports  the  inward  to  the  out- 
ward man,  when  it  is  the  last  that  is  the  general  and  inevitable 
butt  of  ridicule  or  object  of  admiration  ? — It  has  been  said  that  a 
good  face  is  a  letter  of  recommendation.  But  the  finest  face  will 
not  carry  a  man  far,  unless  it  is  set  upon  an  active  body,  and  a 
stout  pair  of  shoulders.  The  countenance  is  the  index  of  a  man's 
talents  and  attainments :  his  figure  is  the  criterion  of  his  progress 
through  life.  We  may  have  seen  faces  that  spoke  "  a  soul  as 
fair — 

"  Bright  as  the  children  of  yon  azure  sheen" — 

yet  that  met  with  but  an  indifferent  reception  in  the  world — and 
that  being  supported  by  a  couple  of  spindle-shanks  and  a  weak 
stomach,  in  fulfilling  what  was  expected  of  them, 

"Fell  flat,  and  shamed  their  worshippers." 


QUALIFICATIONS  NECESSARY  TO  SUCCESS  IN  LIFE.    23i 

Hence  the  successes  of  such  persons  did  not  correspond  with 
their  deserts.  There  was  a  natural  contradiction  between  the 
physiognomy  of  their  minds  and  bodies!  The  phrase,  "  a  good- 
looking  man,"  means  different  things  in  town  and  country  ;  and 
artists  have  a  separate  standard  of  beauty  from  other  people.  A 
country-squire  is  thought  good-looking;  who  is  in  good  condition 
like  his  horse  :  a  country-farmer,  to  take  the  neighbors'  eyes,  must 
seem  stall  fed,  like  the  prize-ox  ;  they  ask,  "  how  he  cuts  up  in 
the  caul,  how  he  tallows  in  the  kidneys."  The  ktter-of-recom- 
mendation  face,  in  general,  is  not  one  that  expresses  the  finer 
movements  of  thought  or  of  the  soul,  but  that  makes  part  of  a 
vigorous  and  healthy  form.  It  is  one  in  which  Cupid  and  Mar3 
take  up  their  quarters,  rather  than  Saturn  or  Mercury,  ft  may 
be  objected  here  that  some  of  the  greatest  favorites  of  fortune  have 
been  little  men.  "  A  little  man,  but  of  high  fancy,"  is  Sterne's 
description  of  Mr.  Hammond  Shandy.  But  then  they  have  been 
possessed  of  strong  fibres  and  an  iron  constitution.  The  late  Mr. 
West  said,  that  Bonaparte  was  the  best  made  man  he  ever  saw 
in  his  life.  In  other  cases  the  gauntlet  of  contempt  which  a  puny 
body  and  a  fiery  spirit  are  forced  to  run,  may  determine  the  pos- 
sessors to  aim  at  great  actions ;  indignation  may  make  men 
heroes  as  well  as  poets,  and  thus  revenge  them  on  the  niggardli- 
ness of  nature  and  the  prejudices  of  the  world.  I  remember  Mr. 
Wordsworth's  saying,  that  he  thought  ingenious  poets  had  been 
of  small  and  delicate  frames,  like  Pope ;  but  that  the  greatest 
(such  as  Shakspeare  and  Milton)  had  been  healthy,  and  cast  in  a 
larger  and  handsomer  mould.  So  were  Titian,  Raphael,  and 
Michael  Angelo.  This  is  one  of  the  few  observations  of  Mr; 
Wordsworth's  I  recollect  worth  quoting,  and  I  accordingly  set  it 
down  as  his,  because  I  understand  he  is  tenacious  on  that  point. 

In  love,  in  war,  in  conversation,  in  business,  confidence  and 
resolution  are  the  principal  things.     Hence  the  poet's  reasoning : 

"  For  women,  born  to  be  controll'd, 
Affect  the  loud,  the  vain,  the  bold." 

Nor  is  this  peculiar  to  them,  but  runs  all  through  life.  It  is  the 
opinion  we  appear  to  entertain  of  ourselves,  from  which  (thinking 
we.  must  be  the  best  judges  of  our  own  merits)  others  accept  their 


235  TABLE  TALK. 


idea  of  us  on  trust.  It  is  taken  for  granted  that  every  one  pre- 
tends to  the  utmost  he  can  do,  and  he  who  pretends  to  little,  is 
supposed  capable  of  nothing.  The  humility  of  our  approaches  to 
power  or  beauty  ensures  a  repulse,  and  the  repulse  makes  us 
unwilling  to  renew  the  application ;  for  there  is  pride  as  well  as 
humility  in  this  habitual  backwardness  and  reserve.  If  you  do 
not  bully  the  world,  they  will  be  sure  to  insult  over  you,  because 
they  think  they  can  do  it  with  impunity.  They  insist  upon  the 
arrogant  assumption  of  superiority  somewhere,  and  if  you  do  not 
prevent  them,  they  will  practise  it  on  you.  Some  one  must  top 
the  part  of  Captain  in  the  play.  Servility  however  chimes  in, 
and  plays  Scrub  in  the  farce.  Men  patronize  the  fawning  and 
obsequious,  as  they  submit  to  the  vain  and  boastful.  It  is  the  air 
of  modesty  and  independence,  which  will  neither  be  put  upon 
itself,  nor  put  upon  others,  that  they  cannot  endure — that  excites 
all  the  indignation  they  should  feel  for  pompous  affectation,  and 
all  the  contempt  they  do  not  show  to  meanness  and  duplicity.  Our 
indolence,  and  perhaps  our  envy  take  part  with  our  cowardice  and 
vanity  in  all  this.  The  obtrusive  claims  of  empty  ostentation, 
played  off  like  the  ring  on  the  finger,  fluttering  and  sparkling  in 
our  sight,  relieve  us  from  the  irksome  task  of  seeking  out  obscure 
merit :  the  scroll  of  virtues  written  on  the  bold  front,  or  triumph- 
ing in  the  laughing  eye,  save  us  the  trouble  of  sifting  the  evidence 
and  deciding  for  ourselves  :  besides,  our  self-love  receives  a  less 
sensible  shock  from  encountering  the  mere  semblance  than  the 
solid  substance  of  worth  ;  folly  chuckles  to  find  the  blockhead 
put  over  the  wise  man's  head,  and  cunning  winks  to  see  the 
knave,  by  his  own  good  leave,  transformed  into  a  saint. 

"  Doubtless,  the  pleasure  is  as  great 
In  being  cheated  as  to  cheat." 

In  all  cases,  there  seems  a  sort  of  compromise,  a  principle  of  col- 
lusion between  imposture  and  credulity.  If  you  ask  what  sort  of 
adventurers  have  swindled  tradesmen  of  their  goods,  you  will  find 
they  are  all  likely  men,  with  plausible  manners  or  a  handsome 
equipage,  hired  on  purpose  : — if  you  ask  what  sort  of  gallants  have 
robbed  women  of  their  hearts,  you  will  find  they  are  those  who 


QUALIFICATIONS  NECESSARY  TO  SUCCESS  IN  LIFE.   233 

nave  jilted  hundreds  before,  from  which  the  willing  fair  conceives 
the  project  of  fixing  the  truant  to  heiself — so  the  bird  flutters  its 
idle  wings  in  the  jaws  of  destruction,  and  the  foolish  moth  rushes 
into  the  flame  that  consumes  it !  There  is  no  trusting  to  appear- 
ances, we  are  told ;  but  this  maxim  is  of  no  avail,  for  men  are  the 
eager  dupes  of  them.  Life,  it  has  been  said,  is  "  the  art  of  being 
well  deceived  ;"  and  accordingly,  hypocrisy  seems  to  be  the  great 
business  of  mankind.  The  game  of  fortune  is,  for  the  most  part, 
set  up  with  counters ;  so  that  he  who  will  not  cut  in  because  he 
has  no  gold  in  his  pocket,  must  sit  out  above  half  his  time,  and 
lose  his  chance  of  sweeping  the  tables.  Delicacy  is,  in  ninety- 
nine  cases  out  of  a  hundred,  considered  as  rusticity  ;  and  sincerity 
of  purpose  is  the  greatest  affront  that  can  be  offered  to  society. 
To  insist  on  simple  truth,  is  to  disqualify  yourself  for  place  or 
patronage — the  less  you  deserve,  the  more  merit  in  their  encour- 
aging you  ;  and  he  who,  in  the  struggle  for  distinction,  trusts  to 
realities  and  not  to  appearances,  will  in  the  end  find  himself  the 
object  of  universal  hatred  and  scorn.  A  man  who  thinks  to  gain 
and  keep  the  public  ear  by  the  force  of  style,  will  find  it  very  up- 
hill work ;  if  you  wish  to  pass  for  a  great  author,  you  ought  not 
to  look  as  if  you  were  ignorant  that  you  had  ever  written  a  sen- 
tence or  discovered  a  single  truth.  If  you  keep  your  own  secret, 
be  assured  the  world  will  keep  it  for  you.  A  writer,  whom  I 
know  very  well,  cannot  gain  an  admission  to  Drury-Iane  Theatre, 
because  he  does  not  lounge  into  the  lobbies,  or  sup  at  the  Shak- 
speare — nay,  the  same  person  having  written  upwards  of  sixty 
columns  of  original  matter  on  politics,  criticism,  belles-lettres,  and 
virtu  in  a  respectable  Morning  Paper,  in  a  single  half-year,  was, 
:  t  the  end  of  that  period,  on  applying  for  a  renewal  of  his  engage 
ment,  told  by  the  Editor  "  he  might  give  in  a  specimen  of  what 
he  could  do !"  One  would  think  sixty  columns  of  the  Morning 
Chronicle  were  a  sufficient  specimen  of  what  a  man  could  do 
But  while  this  person  was  thinking  of  his  next  answer  to  Vetus. 
or  his  account  of  Mr.  Kean's  performance  of  Hamlet,  he  had  neg- 
lected "  to  point  the  toe,"  to  hold  up  his  head  higher  than  usual 
(having  acquired  a  habit  of  poring  over  books  when  young),  and 
to  get  a  new  velvet  collar  to  an  old-fashioned  great  coat.  These 
are  **  the  graceful  ornaments  to  the  columns  of  a  newspaper— the 


234  TABLE  TALK. 

Corinthian  capitals  of  a  polished  style  !"  This  unprofitable  ser. 
vant  of  the  press  found  no  difference  in  himself  before  or  after  he 
became  known  to  the  readers  of  the  Morning  Chronicle,  and  it 
accordingly  made  no  difference  in  his  appearance  or  pretensions. 
"  Don't  you  remember,"  says  Gray,  in  one  of  his  letters,  "  Lord 

C and  Lord  M ,  who  are  now  great  statesmen,  little  dirty 

boys  playing  at  cricket  ?  For  my  own  part,  I  don't  feel  myself 
a  bit  taller,  or  older,  or  wiser,  than  I  did  then."  It  is  no  wonder 
that  a  poet,  who  thought  in  this  manner  of  himself,  was  hunted 
from  college  to  college, — has  left  us  so  few  precious  specimens 
of  his  fine  powers,  and  shrunk  from  his  reputation  into  a  silent 
grave  ! 

"  I  never  knew  a  man  of  genius  a  coxcomb  in  dress,"  said  a 
man  of  genius  and  a  sloven  in  dress.  I  do  know  a  man  of  genius 
who  is  a  coxcomb  in  his  dress,  and  in  everything  else.  But  let 
that  pass. 

"  C'est  un  mauvais  metier  que  celui  de  medire." 

1  also  know  an  artist  who  has  at  least  the  ambition  and  the  bold- 
ness of  genius,  who  has  been  reproached  with  being  a  coxcomb, 
and  with  affecting  singularity  in  his  dress  and  demeanor.  If  he 
is  a  coxcomb  that  way,  he  is  not  so  in  himself,  but  a  rattling  hare- 
brained fellow,  with  a  great  deal  of  unconstrained  gaiety,  and 
impetuous  (not  to  say  turbulent)  life  of  mind  !  Happy  it  is  when 
a  man's  exuberance  of  self-love  flies  off  to  the  circumference  of  a 
broad-brimmed  hat,  descends  to  the  toes  of  his  shoes,  or  carries 
itself  off  with  the  peculiarity  of  his  gait,  or  even  vents  itself  in  a 
little  professional  quackery ; — and  when  he  seems  to  think  some- 
times of  you,  sometimes  of  himself,  and  sometimes  of  others,  and 
you  do  not  feel  it  necessary  to  pay  to  him  all  the  finical  devotion, 
or  to  submit  to  be  treated  with  the  scornful  neglect  of  a  proud 
beauty,  or  some  Prince  Prettyman.  It  is  well  to  be  something 
besides  the  coxcomb,  for  our  own  sake  as  well  as  that  of  others  ; 
but  to  be  born  wholly  without  this  faculty  or  gift  of  Providence, 
a  man  had  better  have  had  a  stone  tied  about  his  neck,  and  been 
cast  into  the  sea. 

In  general,  the  consciousness  of  internal  power  leads  rather  to 


QUALIFICATIONS  NECESSARY   TO  SUCCESS  IN  LIFE.    233 

a  disregard  of,  than  a  studied  attention  to  external  appearance. 
The  wear  and  tear  of  the  mind  does  not  improve  the  sleekness  of 
the  skin,  or  the  elasticity  of  the  muscles.  The  burden  of  thought 
weighs  down  the  body  like  a  porter's  burden.  A  man  cannot 
stand  so  upright  or  move  so  briskly  under  it  as  if  he  had  nothing 
to  carry  in  his  head  or  on  his  shoulders.  The  rose  on  the  cheek 
and  the  canker  at  the  heart  do  not  flourish  at  the  same  time ;  and 
he' who  has  much  to  think  of,  must  take  many  things  to  heart ;  for 
thought  and  feeling  are  one.  He  who  can  truly  say,  Nihil  humani 
a  me  alienum  puto,  has  a  world  of  cares  on  his  hands,  which  no- 
body knows  anything  of  but  himself.  This  is  not  one  of  the  leas* 
miseries  of  a  studious  life.  The  common  herd  do  not  by  any 
means  give  him  full  credit  for  his  gratuitous  sympathy  with  their 
concerns ;  but  are  struck  with  his  lack-lustre  eye  and  wasted 
appearance.  They  cannot  translate  the  expression  of  his  coun- 
tenance out  of  the  vulgate  ;  they  mistake  the  knitting  of  his  brows 
for  the  frown  of  displeasure,  the  paleness  of  study  for  the  languor 
of  sickness,  the  furrows  of  thought  for  the  regular  approaches  of 
old  age.  They  read  his  looks,  not  his  books ;  have  no  clue  to 
penetrate  the  last  recesses  of  the  mind,  and  attribute  the  height 
of    abstraction   to   more   than  an   ordinary  share  of    stupidity. 

"  Mr. never  seems  to  take  the  slightest  interest  in  anything," 

is  a  remark  I  have  often  heard  made  in  a  whisper.  People  do  not 
like  your  philosopher  at  all,  for  he  does  not  look,  say,  or  think  as 
they  do  ;  and  they  respect  him  still  less.  The  majority  go  by  per- 
sonal  appearances,  not  by  proofs  of  intellectual  power ;  and  they 
are  quite  right  in  this,  for  they  are  better  judges  of  the  one  than 
of  the  other.  There  is  a  large  party  who  undervalue  Mr.  Kean's 
acting  (and  very  properly,  as  far  as  they  are  concerned),  for 
they  can  see  that  he  is  a  little  ill-made  man,  but  they  are  incapa- 
ble of  entering  into  the  depth  and  height  of  the  passion  in  his 
Othello.  A  nobleman  of  high  rank,  sense,  and  merit,  who  had 
accepted  an  order  of  knighthood,  on  being  challenged  for  so  doing 
by  a  friend,  as  a  thing  rather  degrading  to  him  than  otherwise, 
made  answer — "  What  you  say,  may  be  very  true  ;  but  I  am  a 
little  man,  and  am  sometimes  jostled,  and  treated  with  very  littla 
ceremony  in  walking  along  the  streets ;  now  the  advantage  of  this 
new  honor  will  be  that  when  people  see  the  star  at  my  breast, 


236  TABLE  TALK. 


they  will  every  one  make  way  for  me  with  the  greatest  respect.' 
Pope  bent  himself  double  and  ruined  his  constitution  by  over-study 
when  young.  He  was  hardly  indemnified  by  all  his  posthumous 
fame,  "  the  flattery  that  soothes  the  dull  cold  ear  of  death,"  nor 
by  the  admiration  of  his  friends,  nor  the  friendship  of  the  great, 
for  the  distortion  of  his  person,  the  want  of  robust  health,  and  the 
insignificant  figure  he  made  in  the  eyes  of  strangers,  and  of  Lady 
Mary  Wortley  Montague.  Not  only  was  his  diminutive  and  mis- 
shapen form  against  him  in  such  trivial  toys,  but  it  was  made  a 
set-off  and  a  bar  to  his  poetical  pretensions  by  his  brother-poets, 
who  ingeniously  converted  the  initial  and  final  letters  of  his  name 
into  the  invidious  appellation  A.  P.  E.  He  probably  had  the  pas- 
sage made  under-ground  from  his  garden  to  his  grotto,  that  he 
might  not  be  rudely  gazed  at  in  crossing  the  road  by  some  untu- 
tored clown ;  and  perhaps  started  to  see  the  worm  he  trod  upon 
writhed  into  his  own  form,  like  Elshie  the  Black  Dwarf.  Let 
those  who  think  the  mind  everything  and  the  body  nothing,  "  ere 
we  have  shuffled  off"  this  mortal  coil,"  read  that  fine  moral  fiction, 
or  the  real  story  of  David  Ritchie — believe  and  tremble  !* 

It  may  be  urged  that  there  is  a  remedy  for  all  this  in  the  appeal 
from  the  ignorant  many  to  the  enlightened  few.  But  the  few  who 
are  judges  of  what  is  called  real  and  solid  merit,  are  not  forward 
to  communicate  their  occult  discoveries  to  others  :  they  are  with- 
held partly  by  envy,  and  partly  by  pusillanimity.  The  strongest 
minds  are  by  rights  the  most  independent  and  ingenuous :  but 
then  they  are  competitors  in  the  lists,  and  jealous  of  the  prize. 

*  It  is  more  desirable  to  be  the  handsomest  than  the  wisest  man  in  his 
Majesty's  dominions,  for  there  are  more  people  who  have  eyes  than  under- 
standings.    Sir  John  Suckling  tells  us  that 

He  prized  black  eyes  and  a  lucky  hit 
At  bowls,  above  all  the  trophies  of  wit. 

In  like  manner,  I  would  be  permitted  to  say,  that  I  am  somewhat  sick  of 
this  trade  of  authorship,  where  the  critics  look  askance  at  one's  best-meant 
efforts,  but  am  still  fond  of  those  athletic  exercises,  where  they  do  not  keep 
two  scores  to  mark  the  game,  with  Whig  and  Tory  notches.  The  accom- 
plishments of  the  body  are  obvious  and  clear  to  all :  those  of  the  mind  are 
recondite  and  doubtful,  and  therefore  grudgingly  acknowledged,  or  held  up 
as  the  sport  of  prejudice,  spite,  and  folly. 


QUALIFICATIONS  NECESSARY  TO  SUCCESS  IN  LIFE.    237 

The  prudent  (and  the  wise  are  prudent !)  only  add  their  hearty 
applause  to  the  acclamations  of  the  multitude,  which  they  can 
neither  silence  nor  dispute.  So  Mr.  Gifford  dedicated  those  verses 
to  Mr.  Hoppner,  when  securely  seated  on  the  heights  of  fame  and 
fortune,  which  before  he  thought  might  have  savored  too  much 
of  flattery  or  friendship.  Those  even  who  have  the  sagacity  to 
discover  it,  seldom  volunteer  to  introduce  obscure  merit  into  pub- 
licity, so  as  to  endanger  their  own  pretensions :  they  praise  the 
world's  idols,  and  bow  down  at  the  altars  which  they  cannot  over- 
turn by  violence  or  undermine  by  stealth  !  Suppose  literary  men 
to  be  the  judges  and  vouchers  for  literary  merit : — but  it  may 
sometimes  happen  that  a  literary  man  (however  high  in  genius  or 
in  fame)  has  no  passion  but  the  love  of  distinction,  and  hates  every 
person  or  thing  that  interferes  with  his  inadmissible  and  exorbitant 
claims.  Dead  to  every  other  interest,  he  is  alive  to  that,  and 
starts  up,  like  a  serpent  when  trod  upon,  out  of  the  slumber  of 
wounded  pride.  The  cold  slime  of  indifference  is  turned  into 
rank  poison  at  the  sight  of  your  approach  to  an  equality  or  com- 
petition with  himself.  If  he  is  an  old  acquaintance,  he  would 
keep  you  always  where  you  were,  under  his  feet  to  be  trampled 
on  :  if  a  new  one,  he  wonders  he  never  heard  of  you  before.  As 
you  become  known,  he  expresses  a  greater  contempt  for  you,  and 
grows  more  captious  and  uneasy.  The  more  you  strive  to  merit 
his  good  word,  the  farther  you  are  from  it.  Such  characters  will 
not  only  sneer  at  your  well-meant  endeavors,  and  keep  silent  as 
to  your  good  qualities,  but  are  out  of  countenance,  "  quite  chop- 
fallen,"  if  they  find  you  have  a  cup  of  water,  or  a  crust  of  bread. 
It  is  only  when  you  are  in  a  jail,  starved  or  dead,  that  their  exclu- 
sive pretensions  are. safe,  or  their  Argus-eyed  suspicions  laid 
asleep.  This  is  a  true  copy,  nor  is  it  taken  from  one  sitting,  or  a 
single  subject. — An  author  now-a-days,  to  succeed,  must  be  some- 
thing more  than  an  author, — a  nobleman,  or  rich  plebeian  :  the 
simple  literary  character  is  not  enough.  "  Such  a  poor  forked 
animal,"  as  a  mere  poet  or  philosopher  turned  loose  upon  public 
opinion,  has  no  chance  against  the  flocks  of  bats  and  owls  that  in- 
stantly assail  him.  It  is  name,  it  is  wealth,  it  is  title  and  influence 
that  mollifies  the  tender-hearted  Cerberus  of  criticism — first,  by 
placing  the  honorary  candidate  for  fame  out  of  the  reach  of  Grub- 


238  TABLE  TALK. 


street  malice ;  secondly,  by  holding  out  the  prospect  of  a  dinner 
or  a  vacant  office  to  successful  sycophancy.  This  is  the  reason 
why  a  certain  Magazine  praises  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley,  and  vili- 
fies "  Johnny  Keats  :"*  they  know  very  well  that  they  cannot 
ruin  the  one  in  fortune  as  well  as  in  fame,  but  they  may  ruin  the 
other  in  both,  deprive  him  of  a  livelihood  together  with  his  good 
name,  send  him  to  Coventry,  and  into  the  Rules  of  a  prison ;  and 
this  is  a  double  incitement  to  the  exercise  of  their  laudable  and 
legitimate  vocation.  We  do  not  hear  that  they  plead  the  good- 
natured  motive  of  the  Editor  of  the  Quarterly  Review,  that  "  they 
did  it  for  his  good,"  because  some  one,  in  consequence  of  that 
critic's  abuse,  had  sent  the  author  a  present  of  five-and-twenty 
pounds  !  One  of  these  writers  went  so  far,  in  a  sort  of  general 
profession  of  literary  servility,  as  to  declare  broadly  that  there 
had  been  no  great  English  poet,  and  that  no  one  had  a  right  to 
pretend  to  the  character  of  a  man  of  genius  in  this  country,  who 
was  not  of  patrician  birth — or  connexions  by  marriage !  This 
hook  was  well  baited. 

These  are  the  doctrines  that  enrich  the  shops, 
That  pass  with  reputation  through  the  land, 
And  bring  their  authors  an  immortal  name. 

It  is  the  sympathy  of  the  public  with  the  spite,  jealousy,  and 
irritable  humors  of  the  writers,  that  nourishes  this  disease  in  the 
public  mind ;  this  "  embalms  and  spices  to  the  April  day  again," 
what  otherwise  "the  spital  and  the  lazar-house  would  heave  the 
gorge  at  I" 


*  Written  in  June,  1820.  • 


MADAME  PASTA  AND  MADEMOISELLE  MARS.  238 


ESSAY  XVIII. 

Madame  Pasta  and  Mademoiselle  Mars. 

I  liked  Mademoiselle  Mars  exceedingly  well,  till  I  saw  Madame 
Pasta  whom  I  liked  so  much  better.  The  reason  is,  the  one  is 
the  perfection  of  French,  the  other  of  natural  acting.  Madame 
Pasta  is  Italian,  and  she  might  be  English — Mademoiselle  Mars 
belongs  emphatically  to  her  country  ;  the  scene  of  her  triumphs 
is  Paris.  She  plays  naturally  too,  but  it  is  French  nature.  Let 
me  explain.  She  has,  it  is  true,  none  of  the  vices  of  the  French 
theatre,  its  extravagance,  its  flutter,  its  grimace,  and  affectation, 
but  her  merit  in  these  respects  is  as  it  were  negative,  and  she 
seems  to  put  an  artificial  restraint  upon  herself.  There  is 
still  a  pettiness,  an  attention  to  minutiae,,  an  etiquette,  a  manner- 
ism about  her  acting  :  she  does  not  give  an  entire  loose  to  her 
feelings,  or  trust  to  the  unpremeditated  and  habitual  impulse  of 
her  situation.  She  has  greater  elegance,  perhaps,  and  precision 
of  style  than  Madame  Pasta,  but  not  half  her  boldness  or  grace. 
In  short,  everything  she  does  is  voluntary,  instead  of  being  spon- 
taneous. It  seems  as  if  she  might  be  acting  from  marginal 
directions  to  her  part.  When  not  speaking,  she  stands  in  general 
quite  still.  When  she  speaks,  she  extends  first  one  hand  and  then 
the  other,  in  a  way  that  you  can  foresee  every  time  she  does  so, 
or  in  which  a  machine  might  be  elaborately  constructed  to  deve- 
lope  different  successive  movements.  When  she  enters,  she 
advances  in  a  straight  line  from  the  other  end  to  the  middle  of  the 
stage  with  the  slight  unvarying  trip  of  her  country-women,  and 
then  stops  short,  as  if  under  the  drill  of  a  fugal-man.  When  she 
speaks,  she  articulates  with  perfect  clearness  and  propriety,  but  it 
is  the  facility  of  a  singer  executing  a  difficult  passage.  The  case 
is  that  of  habit  not  of  nature.  Whatever  she  does,  is  right  in  the 
intention,  and  she  takes  care  not  to  carry  it  too  far;  but  she 


«4U  TABLE  TALK. 


appears  fo  say  beforehand,  "  This  I  will  do,  I  must  not  do  that." 
Her  acting  is  an  inimitable  study  or  consummate  rehearsal  of  the 
part  as  a  preparatory  performance :  she  hardly  yet  appears  to 
have  assumed  the  character  ;  something  more  is  wanting,  and 
that  something  you  find  in  Madame  Pasta.  If  Mademoiselle 
Mars  has  to  smile,  a  slight  and  evanescent  expression  of  pleasure 
passes  across  the  surface  of  her  face  ;  twinkles  in  her  eyelids, 
dimples  her  chin,  compresses  her  lips,  and  plays  on  each  feature  : 
when  Madame  Pasta  smiles,  a  beam  of  jo)  seems  to  have  struck 
upon  her  heart,  and  to  irradiate  her  countenance.  Her  whole 
face  is  bathed  and  melted  in  expression,  instead  of  its  glancing 
from  particular  points.  When  she  speaks,  it  is  in  music.  When 
she  moves,  it  is  without  thinking  whether  she  is  graceful  or  not. 
When  she  weeps,  it  is  a  fountain  of  tears,  not  a  few  trickling 
drops,  that  glitter  and  vanish  the  instant  after.  The  French 
themselves  admire  Madame  Pasta's  acting  (who  indeed  can  help 
it  ?)  but  they  go  away  thinking  how  much  one  of  her  simple 
movements  would  be  improved  by  their  extravagant  gesticulations, 
and  that  her  noble,  natural  expression  would  be  the  better  for 
having  twenty  airs  of  mincing  affectation  added  to  it.  In  her 
Nina  there  is  a  listless  vacancy,  an  awkward  grace,  a  want  of 
biense'ance,  that  is  like  a  child  or  a  changeling,  and  that  no 
French  actress  would  venture  upon  for  a  moment,  lest  she  should 
be  suspected  of  a  want  of  esprit  or  of  bon  mien.  A  French  actress 
always  plays  before  the  court ;  she  is  always  in  the  presence  of 
an  audience,  with  whom  she  first  settles  her  personal  pretensions 
by  a  significant  hint  or  side-glance,  and  then  as  much  nature  and 
simplicity  as  you  please.  Poor  Madame  Pasta  thinks  no  more  of 
the  audience  than  Nina  herself  would,  if  she  could  be  observed 
by  stealth,  or  than  the  fawn  that  wounded  comes  to  drink,  or  the 
flower  that  droops  in  the  sun  or  wags  its  sweet  head  in  the  gale. 
She  gives  herself  entirely  up  to  the  impression  of  the  part,  loses 
her  power  over  herself,  is  led  away  by  her  feelings  either  to  an 
expression  of  stupor  or  of  artless  joy,  borrows  beauty  from 
deformity,  charms  unconsciously,  and  is  transformed  into  the  very 
being  she  represents.  She  does  not  act  the  character — she  is  it, 
looks  it,  breathes  it.  She  does  not  study  for  an  effect,  but  strives 
to  possess  herself  of  the  feeling  which  should  dictate  what  she  ii 


MADAME  PASTA  AND  MADEMOISELLE  MARS.  241 

to  do,  and  whicn  gives  birth  to  the  proper  degree  of  grace,  dignity, 
ease,  or  force.  She  makes  no  point  all  the  way  through,  but  her 
whole  style  and  manner  is  in  perfect  keeping,  as  if  she  were 
really  a  love-sick,  care-crazed  maiden,  occupied  with  one  deep 
sorrow,  and  who  had  no  other  idea  or  interest  in  the  world.  This 
alone  is  true  nature  and  true  art.  The  rest  is  sophistical ;  and 
French  art  is  not  free  from  the  imputation;  it  never  places  at; 
implicit  faith  in  nature,  but  always  mixes  up  a  certain  portion  of 
art,  that  is  of  consciousness  and  affectation  with  it.  I  shaL 
illustrate  this  subject  from  a  passage  in  Shakspeare. 

"  Polixenes. — Shepherdess, 
(A  fair  one  are  you)  well  you  fit  our  ages 
With  flow'rs  of  winter. 

Perdita. — Sir,  the  year  growing  ancient, 
Nor  yet  on  summer's  death,  nor  on  the  birth 
Of  trembling  winter,  the  fairest  flowers  o*  th'  season 
Are  our  carnations  and  streak'd  gilliflowers, 
Which  some  call  nature's  bastards  ;  of  that  kind 
Our  rustic  garden's  barren,  and  I  care  no-; 
To  get  slips  of  them. 

Polix. — Wherefore,  gentle  maiden, 
Do  you  neglect  them  ? 

Perdita. — For  I  have  heard  it  said, 
There  is  an  art  which  in  their  piedness  shares 
With  great  creating  nature. 

Polix. — Say,  there  be, 
Yet  nature  is  made  better  by  no  mean, 
But  nature  makes  that  mean  ;  so  o'er  that  art, 
Which  you  say  adds  to  nature,  is  an  art, 
That  nature  makes  ;  you  see,  sweet  maid,  we  marry 
A  gentle  scion  to  the  wildest  stock, 
And  make  conceive  a  bark  of  baser  kind 
By  bud  of  nobler  race.     This  is  an  art, 
Which  does  mend  nature;  change  it  rather ;  but 
The  art  itself  is  nature. 

Perdita. — So  it  is. 

Polix. — Then  make  your  garden  rich  in  gillifloweiBs, 
And  do  not  call  them  bastards. 

Perdita. — I'll  not  put 
A  dibble  in  earth,  to  set  one  slip  of  them ; 
No  more  than,  were  I  painted,  I  should  wish 
This  youth  to  say,  'twere  well ;  and  only  therefore 
Desire  to  breed  by  me." —  Winters  Tale,  Act  IV. 
KKCONr    SERIES — PART  I.  17 


242  TABLE  TALK. 


Madafne  Pasta  appears  to  be  of  Perdita's  mind  in  respect  to 
her  acting,  and  I  applaud  her  reso.ution  heartily.  We  English 
are  charged  unjustly  with  wishing  to  disparage  the  French  :  we 
cannot  help  it ;  there  is  a  natural  antipathy  between  the  two 
nations.  Thus  unable  to  deny  their  theatrical  merit,  we  are  said 
insidiously  to  have  invented  the  appellation,  French  nature,  to 
explain  away  or  throw  a  stigma  on  their  most  successful 
exertions : 

"  Though  that  their  art  be  nature, 

We  throw  such  changes  of  vexation  on  it, 
As  it  may  lose  some  color." 

The  English  are  a  heavy  people,  and  the  most  like  a  stone 
of  all  others.  The  French  are  a  lively  people,  and  more  like  a 
feather.  They  are  easily  moved  and  by  slight  causes,  and  each 
part  of  the  impression  has  its  separate  effect :  the  English,  if  they 
are  moved  at  all  (which  is  a  work  of  time  and  difficulty),  are 
moved  altogether,  or  in  mass,  and  the  impression,  if  it  takes  root, 
strikes  deep  and  spreads  wide,  involving  a  number  of  other  im- 
pressions in  it.  If  a  fragment  of  a  rock  wrenched  from  its  place 
rolls  slowly  at  first,  gathers  strength  and  fury  as  it  proceeds,  tears 
up  everything  in  its  way,  and  thunders  to  the  plain  below,  there 
is  something  noble  and  imposing  in  the  sight,  for  it  is  an  image  of 
our  own  headlong  passions,  and  the  increasing  vehemence  of  our 
desires.  But  we  hate  to  see  a  feather  launched  into  the  air  and 
driven  back  on  the  hand  that  throws  it,  shifting  its  course  with 
every  puff  of  wind,  and  carried  no  farther  by  the  strongest  than 
by  the  slightest  impulse.  It  is  provoking  (is  it  not  ?)  to  see  the 
strength  of  the  blow  always  defeated  by  the  very  insignificance 
and  want  of  resistance  in  the  object,  and  the  impulse  received 
never  answering  to  the  impulse  gfven.  It  is  the  very  same  flut- 
tering, fidgetting,  tantalizing,  inconsequential,  ridiculous  process 
that  annoys  us  in  the  French  character.  There  seems  no  natural 
correspondence  between  objects  »,nd  feelings,  between  things  and 
words.  By  yielding  to  every  impulse  at  once,  nothing  produces 
a  powerful  or  permanent  impression  ;  nothing  produces  an  aggre- 
gate impression,  for  every  part  tells  separately.  Every  idea  turns 
off  to  something  else,  or  back  upon  itself;  there  is  no  progress 


MADAME  PASTA  AND  MADEMOISELLE  MARS.  24 

made,  no  blind  impulse,  no  accumulation  of  imagination  with  cir 
cumstances,  no  absorption  of  all  other  feelings  in  one  overwhelm- 
ing one,  that  is,  no  keeping,  no  momentum,  no  integrity,  no  totality, 
no  inflexible  sincerity  of  purpose ;  and  it  is  this  resolution  of  the 
sentiments  into  their  detached  points  and  first  impressions,  so  that 
they  do  not  take  an  entire  and  involuntary  hold  of  them,  but 
either  they  can  throw  them  off  from  their  lightness,  or  escape 
from  them  by  reason  of  their  minuteness,  that  we  English  com- 
plain of  as  French  nature  or  a  want  of  nature,  for  by  nature  is 
only  meant  that  the  mind  identifies  itself  with  something  so  as  to 
be  no  longer  master  of  itself,  and  the  French  mind  never  identi- 
fies itself  with  anything,  but  always  has  its  own  consciousness,  its 
own  affectation,  its  own  gratification,  its  own  slippery  inconstancy 
or  impertinent  prolixity  interposed  between  the  object  and  the 
impression.  It  is  this  theatrical  or  artificial  nature  with  which 
we  cannot  and  will  not  sympathize,  because  it  circumscribes  the 
truth  of  things  and  the  capacities  of  the  human  mind  within  the 
petty  round  of  vanity,  indifference,  and  physical  sensations,  stunts 
the  growth  of  imagination,  effaces  the  broad  light  of  nature,  and 
requires  us  to  look  at  all  things  through  the  prism  of  their  petu- 
lance and  self-conceit.  The  French  in  a  word  leave  sincerity 
out  of  their  nature  (not  moral  but  imaginative  sincerity),  cut  down 
the  varieties  of  feeling  to  their  own  narrow  and  superficial  stan- 
dard, and  having  clipped  and  adulterated  the  current  coin  of  ex- 
pression, would  pass  it  off  as  sterling  gold.  We  cannot  make  an 
exchange  with  them.  They  are  affected  by  things  in  a  different 
manner  from  us,  not  in  a  different  degree ;  and  a  mutual  under- 
standing is  hopeless.  We  have  no  dislike  to  foreigners  as  such : 
on  the  contrary,  a  rage  for  foreign  artists  and  works  of  art  is  one 
of  our  foibles.  But  if  we  give  up  our  national  pride,  it  must  be 
to  our  taste  and  understandings.  Nay,  we  adopt  the  manners  and 
the  fashions  of  the  French,  their  dancing  and  their  cooking, — not 
their  music,  not  their  painting,  not  their  poetry,  not  their  meta- 
physics, not  their  style  of  acting.  If  we  are  sensible  of  our  own 
stupidity,  we  cannot  admire  their  vivacity ;  if  we  are  sick  of  our 
own  awkwardness,  we  like  it  better  than  their  grace  j  we  cannot 
part  with  our  grossness  for  their  refinement ;  if  we  would  be  glad 
to  have  our  lumpish  clay  animated,  it  must  be  with  true  Prome 

28 


844  TABLE  TALK. 


thean  heat,  not  with  painted  phosphorus :  they  are  not  the  Frank- 
ensteins  that  must  perform  this  feat.     Who  among  us  in  reading 
Schiller's  Robbers  for  the  first  time  ever  asked  if  it  was  German 
or  not  ?     Who  in  reading  Klopstock's  Messiah  did  not  object  that 
it  was  German,  not  because  it  was  German,  but  because  it  was 
heavy  ;  that  is,  because  the  imagination  and  the  heart  do  not  act 
like  a  machine,  so  as  to  be  wound  up  or  let  down  by  the  pulleys 
of  the  will  ?     Do  not  the  French  complain  (and  complain  justly), 
that  a  picture  is  English,  when  it  is  coarse  and  unfinished,  and 
leaves  out  the  details  which  are  one  part  of  nature  ?     Do  not  the 
English  remonstrate  against  this  defect  too,  and  endeavor  to  cure 
it  ?     But  it  may  be  said  we  relish  Schiller,  because  he  is  barba- 
rous, violent,  and  like  Shakspeare.     We  have  the  Cartoons  of 
Raphael  then,  and  Elgin  marbles ;  and  we  profess  to  admire  and 
understand  these  too,  and  I  think  without  any  affectation.     The 
reason  is  that  there   is  no  affectation  in  them.     We  like  those 
noble  outlines  of  the  human  face  at  Hampton  Court ;  the  sustain. 
ed  dignity  of  the  expression  ;  the  broad,  ample  folds  of  the  dra- 
pery ;  the  bold,  massive   limbs ;  there  is   breath  and  motion  in 
them,  and  we  would  willingly  be  so  transformed  and  spiritualized  : 
but  we  do  not  want  to  have  our  heavy,  stupid  faces  frittered  away 
into  a  number  of  glittering  points  or  transfixed  into  a  smooth  pet- 
rifaction on  French  canvas.    Our  faces,  if  wanting  in  expression, 
have  a  settled  purpose  in  them ;  are  as  solid  as  they  are  stupid  ; 
and  we  are  at  least  flesh  and  blood.     We  also  like  the  sway  of 
the  limbs  and  negligent  grandeur  of  the  Elgin  marbles ;  in  spite 
of  their  huge  weight  and  manly  strength,  they  have  the  buoyancy 
of  a  wave  of  the  sea,  with  all  the  ease  and  softness  of  flesh  :  they 
fall  into  attitudes  of  themselves :  but  if  they  were  put  into  atti- 
tudes by  the  genius  of  Opera-dancing,  we  should  feel  no  disposi- 
tion to  imitate  or  envy  them,  any  more  than  we  do  the  Zephyr 
and  Flora  graces  of  French  statuary.     We  prefer  a  single  head 
of  Chantry's  to  a  quarry  of  French  sculpture.     The  English  are 
a  modest  people,  except  in  comparing  themselves  with  their  next 
neighbors,  and  nothing  provokes  their  pride  in  this  case,  so  much 
as   the   self-sufficiency   of  the   latter.      When    Madame  Pasta 
walks  in   upon  the  stage,  and  looks   about  her  with  the  same 
unconsciousness  or  timid  wonder  as  the  young  stag  in  the  forest ; 


MADAME  PASTA  AND  MADEMOISELLE  MARS.  245 

when  she  moves  her  limbs  as  carelessly  as  a  tiee  its  branches; 
when  she  unfolds  one  of  her  divine  expressions  of  countenance, 
which  reflect  the  inmost  feelings  of  the  soul,  as  the  calm,  deep 
lake  reflects  the  face  of  heaven ;  do  we  not  sufficiently  admire 
her,  do  we  not  wish  her  ours,  and  feel,  with  the  same  cast  of 
thought  and  character,  a  want  of  glow,  of  grace,  and  ease  in  the 
expression  of  what  we  feel  ?  We  bow,  like  Guiderius  and  Arvi- 
ragus  in  the  cave  when  they  saw  Imogen,  as  to  a  thing  superior. 
On  the  other  hand,  when  Mademoiselle  Mars  comes  on  the  stage, 
something  in  the  manner  of  a  fantoccini  figure  slid  along  on  a 
wooden  frame,  and  making  directly  for  the  point  at  which  her 
official  operations  commence — when  her  face  is  puckered  into  a 
hundred  little  expressions  like  the  wrinkles  on  the  skin  of  a  bowl 
of  cream,  set  in  a  window  to  cool,  her  eyes  peering  out  with  an 
ironical  meaning,  her  nose  pointing  it,  and  her  lips  confirming  it 
with  a  dry  pressure — we  admire  indeed,  we  are  delighted,  we 
may  envy,  but  we  do  not  sympathize  or  very  well  know  what  to 
make  of  it.  We  are  not  electrified,  as  in  the  former  instance, 
but  animal-magnetised*  We  can  manage  pretty  well  with  any 
one  feeling  or  expression  (like  a  clown  that  must  be  taught  his 
letters  one  at  a  time)  if  it  keeps  on  in  the  same  even  course,  that 
expands  and  deepens  by  degrees,  but  we  are  distracted  and  puz- 
zled, or  at  best  only  amused  with  that  sort  of  expression  which  is 
hardly  itself  for  two  moments  together,  that  shifts  from  point  to 
point,  that  seems  to  have  no  place  to  rest  on,  no  impulse  to  urie 
it  forward,  and  might  as  well  be  twenty  other  things  at  the  same 
time — where  tears  come  so  easily  they  can  hardly  be  real,  where 
smiles  are  so  playful  they  appear  put  on,  where  you  cannot  tell  what 
you  are  to  believe,  for  the  parties  themselves  do  not  know  whether  they 
are  in  jest  or  earnest,  where  the  whole  tone  is  ironical,  conven- 
tional, and  where  the  difference  between  nature  and  art  is  nearly 

*  Even  her  fexiste  in  Valeria  (when  she  first  acquires  the  use  of  sight) 
is  pointed  like  an  epigram,  and  put  in  italics,  tike  a  technical  or  metaphy- 
sical distinction,  instead  of  being  a  pure  effusion  of  joy.  Accordingly  a 
French  pit-critic  took  up  the  phrase,  insisting  that  to  exist  was  common  to 
all  things,  and  asked  what  the  expression  was  in  the  original  German. 
This  treatment  of  passion  is  topical  and  extraneous,  and  seld<  m  strikes  at 
the  seat  of  the  disorder,  the  heart. 


246  TABLE  TALK. 


imperceptible.  This  is  what  we  mean  by  French  nature,  viz., 
that  the  feelings  and  ideas  are  so  slight  and  discontinuous  that 
they  can  be  changed  for  others  like  a  dress  or  vizor ;  or  else,  to 
make  up  for  want  of  truth  and  breadth,  are  caricatured  into  a 
mask.  This  is  the  defect  of  their  tragedy,  and  the  defect  and 
excellence  of  their  comedy ;  the  one  is  a  pompous  abortion,  the 
other  a  fac-simile  of  life,  almost  too  close  to  be  agreeable.  A 
French  comic  actor  might  be  supposed  to  have  left  his  shop  for 
half  an  hour  to  show  himself  upon  a  stage — there  is  no  differ- 
ence, worth  speaking  of,  between  the  man  and  the  actor — whether 
on  the  stage  or  at  home,  he  is  equally  full  of  gesticulation,  equally 
voluble,  and  without  meaning — as  their  tragic  actors  are  solemn 
puppets,  moved  by  rules,  pulled  by  wires,  and  with  their  mouths 
stuffed  with  rant  and  bombast.  This  is  the  harm  that  can  be 
said  of  them  :  they  themselves  are  doubtless  best  acquainted  with 
the  good,  and  are  not  too  diffident  to  tell  it.  Though  other  people 
abuse  them,  they  can  still  praise  themselves !  I  once  knew  a 
French  lady  who  said  all  manner  of  good  things  and  forgot  them 
the  next  moment ;  who  maintained  an  argument  with  great  wit 
and  eloquence,  and  presently  after  changed  sides,  without  knowing 
that  she  had  done  so ;  who  invented  a  story  and  believed  it  on 
the  spot ;  who  wept  herself  and  made  you  weep  with  the  force  of 
her  descriptions,  and  suddenly  drying  her  eyes,  laughed  at  you 
for  looking  grave.  Is  not  this  like  acting  ?  Yet  it  was  not 
affected  in  her,  but  natural,  involuntary,  incorrigible.  The  hurry 
and  excitement  of  her  natural  spirits  was  like  a  species  of  intoxi- 
cation, or  she  resembled  a  child  in  thoughtlessness  and  incoher- 
ence. She  was  a  Frenchwoman.  It  was  nature,  but  nature  that 
had  nothing  to  do  with  truth  or  consistency. 

In  one  of  the  Paris  Journals  lately,  there  was  a  criticism  on 
two  pictures  by  Girodet  of  Bonchamps  and  Cathelineau,  Vendean 
chiefs.  The  paper  is  well  written,  and  points  out  the  defects  of 
the  portraits  very  fairly  and  judiciously.  These  persons  are 
there  called  "  Illustrious  Vendeans."  The  dead  dogs  of  1812  are 
the  illustrious  Vendeans  of  1824.  Monsieur  Chateaubriand  will 
have  it  so,  and  the  French  are  too  polite  a  nation  to  contradict 
him.  They  split  on  this  rock  of  complaisance,  surrendering  every 
principle  to  the  fear  of  giving  offence,  as  we  do  on  the  opposite 


MADAME  PASTA  AND  MADEMOISELLE  MARS.  247 

one  of  party-spirit  and  rancorous  hostility,  sacrificing  the  best  of 
causes,  and  our  best  friends  to  the  desire  of  giving  offence,  to  the 
indulgence  of  our  spleen,  and  of  an  ill-tongue.  We  apply  a  de- 
grading appellation,  or  bring  an  opprobrious  charge  against  ar» 
individual;  and  such  is  our  tenaciousness  of  the  painful  and  dis- 
agreeable,  so  fond  are  we  of  brooding  over  grievances,  so  incapa- 
ble  are  our  imaginations  of  raising  themselves  above  the  lowest 
scurrility  or  the  dirtiest  abuse,  that  should  the  person  attacked 
come  out  an  angel  from  the  contest,  the  prejudice  against  him  re- 
mains nearly  the  same  as  if  the  charge  had  been  fully  proved. 
An  unpleasant  association  has  been  created,  and  this  is  too  de- 
lightful an  exercise  of  the  understanding  with  the  English  public 
easily  to  be  parted  with.  John  Bull  would  as  soon  give  up  an 
estate  as  a  bug-bear.  Having  been  once  gulled,  they  are  not 
soon  ungulled.  They  are  too  knowing  for  that.  Nay,  they  re- 
sent the  attempt  to  undeceive  them  as  an  injury.  The  French 
apply  a  brilliant  epithet  to  the  most  vulnerable  characters ;  and 
thus  gloss  over  a  life  of  treachery  or  infamy.  With  them  the 
immediate  or  last  impression  is  everything ;  with  us,  the  first,  if 
it  is  sufficiently  strong  and  gloomy,  never  wears  out !  The  French 
critic  observes  that  M.  Girodet  has  given  General  Bonchamps, 
though  in  a  situation  of  great  difficulty  and  danger,  a  calm  and 
even  smding  air,  and  that  the  portrait  of  Cathelineau,  instead  of  a 
hero,  looks  only  like  an  angry  peasant.  In  fact,  the  lips  in  the 
first  portrait  are  made  of  marmalade,  the  complexion  is  cosmetic, 
and  the  smile  ineffably  engaging ;  while  the  eye  of  the  peasant 
Cathelineau  darts  a  beam*  of  light,  such  as  no  eye,  however  illus- 
trious, was  ever  illumined  with.  But  so  it  is,  the  Senses,  like  a 
favorite  lap-dog,  are  pampered  and  indulged  at  any  expense  :  the 
Imagination,  like  a  gaunt  hound,  is  starved  and  driven  away. 
Danger  and  death,  and  ferocious  courage  and  stern  fortitude, 
however  the  subject  may  exact  them,  are  uncourtly  topics  and 
kept  out  of  sight :  but  smiling  lips  and  glistening  eyes  are  pleas- 
ing objects,  ani  there  you  find  them.  The  style  of  portrait  re- 
quires it.  It  is  of  this  varnish  and  glitter  of  sentiment  that  we 
complain  (perhaps  it  is  no  business  of  ours)  as  what  must  forever 
intercept  the  true  feeling  and  genuine  rendering  of  nature  in 
French  ar%  as  what  makes  it  spurious  and  counterfeit,  and  strips 


248  TABLE  TALK. 


it  of  simplicity,  force  and  grandeur.  Whatever  pleases,  whatever 
strikes,  holds  out  a  temptation  to  the  French  artist  too  strong  to 
be  resisted,  and  there  is  too  great  a  sympathy  in  the  public  mind 
with  this  view  of  the  subject,  to  quarrel  with  or  severely  criticise 
what  is  so  congenial  with  its  own  feelings.  A  premature  and 
superficial  sensibility  is  thegi'ave  of  French  genius  and  of  French 
taste.  'Beyond  the  momentary  impulse  of  a  lively  organization, 
all  the  rest  is  mechanical  and  pedantic  ;  they  give  you  rules  and 
theories  for  truth  and  nature,  the  Unities  for  poetry,  and  the  dead 
body  for  the  living  soul  of  art.  They  color  a  Greek  statue  ill 
and  call  it  a  picture :  they  paraphrase  a  Greek  tragedy,  and  over- 
load it  with  long-winded  speeches,  and  they  think  they  have  a 
national  drama  of  their  own.  Any  other  people  would  be  ashamed 
of  such  preposterous  pretensions.  In  invention,  they  do  not  get 
beyond  models ;  in  imitation,  beyond  details.  Their  microscopic 
vision  hinders  them  from  seeing  nature.  I  observed  two  young 
students  the  other  day  near  the  top  of  Montmartre,  making  oil 
sketches  of  a  ruinous  hovel  in  one  corner  of -the  road.  Paris  lay 
below,  glittering  grey  and  gold  (like  a  spider's  web)  in  the  setting 
sun,  which  shot  its  slant  rays  upon  their  shining  canvas,  and  they 
were  busy  in  giving  the  finishing  touches.  The  little  outhouse 
was  in  itself  picturesque  enough :  it  was  covered  with  moss, 
which  hung  down  in  a  sort  of  drooping  form  as  the  rain  had 
streamed  down  it,  and  the  walls  were  loose  and  crumbling  in 
pieces.  Our  artists  had  repaired  everything :  not  a  stone  was 
out  of  its  place  :  no  traces  were  left  of  the  winter's  flaw  in  the 
pendent  moss.  One  would  think  the  bricklayer  and  gardener 
had  been  regularly  set  to  work  to  do  away  everything  like  senti- 
ment or  keeping  in  the  object  before  them.  Oh,  Paris !  it  was 
indeed  on  this  thy  weak  side  (thy  inability  to  connect  any  two 
ideas  into  one)  that  thy  barbarous  and  ruthless  foes  entered  in ! — 
The  French  have  a  great  dislike  to  anything  obscure.  They 
cannot  bear  to  suppose  for  a  moment  there  should  be  anything 
they  do  not  understand :  they  are  shockingly  afraid  of  being  mys- 
tified. Hence  they  have  no  idea  either  of  mental  or  aerial  per- 
spective. Everything  must  be  distinctly  made  out  and  in  the 
foreground ;  for  if  it  is  not  so  clear  that  they  can  take  it  up  bit 
by  bit,  it  is  wholly  lost  upon  them,  and  they  turn   away  as  from 


MADAME  PASTA  AND  MADEMOISELLE  MARS.  24u 

an  unmeaning  blank.     This  is  the  cause  of  the  stiff,  unnatural 
look  of  their  portraits.     No  allowance  is  made  for  the  veil  that 
shade  as  well  as  an  oblique  position  casts  over  the  different  parts 
of  the  face ;  every  feature,  and  every   part  of  every  feature  is 
given  with  the  same  flat  effect,  and  it  is  owing  to  this  perverse 
fidelity  of  detail,  that  that  which  is  literally  true,   is  naturally 
false.     The  side  of  a  face  seen  in  perspective  does  not  present  so 
many  markings  as  the  one  that  meets  your  eye  full ;  but  if  it  is 
put  into  the  vice  of  French  portrait,  wrenched  round  by  incorrigi- 
ble affectation  and  conceit  (that  insist  upon  knowing  all  that  is 
there,  and  set  it  down  formally,  though  it  is  not  to  be  seen),  what 
can  be  the  result,  but  that  the  portrait  will  look  like  a  head  stuck 
in  a  vice,  will  be  flat,  hard,  and  finished,  will  have  the  appear- 
ance of  reality  and  at  the   same  time  look  like  paint ;  in  short, 
will  be  a  French  portrait  ?     That  is,  the  artist,  from  a  pettiness 
of  view   and   want   of  more   enlarged  and  liberal    notions   of 
art,  comes  iorward  not  to  represent  nature,  but  like  an  imperti- 
nent commentator  to  explain  what  she  has  left  in  doubt,  to  insist 
on  that  which  she  passes  over  or  touches  only  slightly,  to  throw  a 
critical  light  on  what  she  casts  into  shade,  and  to  pick  out  the  de- 
tails of  what  she  blends  into  masses.     I  wonder  they  allow  the 
existence  of  the  term  clair-obscur  at  all,  but  it  is  a  word ;  and  a 
word  is  a  thing  they  can  repeat  and  remember.     A  French  gen- 
tleman formerly  asked  me  what  1  thought  of  a  landscape  in  their 
Exhibition.     I  said  that  I  thought  it  too  clear.     He  made  answer 
that  he  should  never  have  conceived  that  to  be  possible.     I  re- 
plied, that  what  I  meant  was,  that  the  parts  of  the  several  objects 
were  made  out  with  too  nearly  equal  distinctness  all  over  the  picture; 
that  the  leaves  of  the  trees  in  the  shadow  were  as  distinct  as  those 
in  light,  the  branches  of  the  trees  at  a  distance  as  plain  as  of  those 
near.     The  perspective  arose  only  from  the  diminution  of  objects, 
and  there  was  no  interposition  of  air.     I  said,  one  could  not  see 
the  leaves  of  a  tree  a  mile  off,  but  this,  I  added,  appertained  to  a 
question  in  metaphysics.     He  shook  his  head,   thinking  that  a 
young  Englishman  could  know  as  little  of  abstruse  philosophy  as 
of  fine   art,  and  no  more   was  said.     I  owe  to  this  gentleman 
(whose  name  was  Merimee,  and  who  I  understand  is  still  living), 
a  grateful  sense  of  many  friendly  attentions  and  many  useful  sujp» 

28 


2U0  TABLE  TALK. 


gestions,  and  1  take  this  opportunity  of  acknowledging  my  obliga- 
tions. 

Some  one  was  observing  of  Madame  Pasta's  acting,  that  its 
chief  merit  consisted  in  its  being  natural.  To  which  it  was  re- 
plied, "  Not  so,  for  that  there  was  an  ugly  and  a  handsome  nature." 
There  is  an  old  proverb,  that  "  Home  is  home,  be  it  never  so 
homely  :"  and  so  it  may  be  said  of  nature  ;  that  whether  ugly  or 
handsome,  it  is  nature  still.  Besides  beauty  there  is  truth,  which 
is  always  one  principal  thing.  It  doubles  the  effect  of  beauty, 
which  is  mere  affectation  without  it,  and  even  reconciles  us  to  de- 
formity. Nature,  the  truth  of  nature  in  imitation,  denotes  a  given 
object,  a  "  foregone  conclusion"  in  reality,  to  which  the  "artist  is 
to  conform  in  his  copy.  In  nature  real  objects  exist,  real  causes 
act,  which  are  only  supposed  to  act  in  art ;  and  it  is  in  the  sub- 
ordination of  the  uncertain  and  superficial  combinations  of  fancy 
to  the  more  stable  and  powerful  law  of  reality  that  the  perfection 
of  art  consists.  A  painter  may  arrange  fine  colors  on  his  palette ; 
but  if  he  merely  does  this,  he  does  nothing.  It  is  accidental  or 
arbitrary.  The  difficulty  and  the  charm  of  the  combination 
begins  with  the  truth  of  imitation,  that  is,  with  the  resemblance  to 
a  given  object  in  nature,  or  in  other  words,  with  the  strength, 
coherence,  and  justness  of  our  impressions,  which  must  be  verified 
by  a  reference  to  a  known  and  determinate  class  of  objects  as  the 
test.  Art  is  so  far  the  development  or  the  communication  of 
knowledge,  but  there  can  be  no  knowledge  unless  it  be  of  some 
given  or  standard  object  which  exists  independently  of  the  repre- 
sentation and  bends  the  will  to  an  obedience  to  it.  The  strokes 
of  the  pencil  are  what  the  artist  pleases,  are  mere  idleness  and 
caprice  without  meaning,  unless  they  point  to  nature.  Then  they 
are  right  or  wrong,  true  or  false,  as  they  follow  in  her  steps  and 
copy  her  style.  Art  must  anchor  in  nature,  or  it  is  the  sport  of 
every  breath  of  folly.  Natural  objects  convey  giveli  or  intelligible 
ideas  which  art  embodies  and  represents,  or  it  represents  nothing,  is 
a  mere  chimera  or  bubble ;  and,  farther,  natural  objects  or  events 
cause  certain  feelings,  in  expressing  which  art  manifests  its  power, 
and  genius  its  prerogative.  The  capacity  of  expressing  these 
movements  of  passion  is  in  proportion  to  the  power  with  which  they 
are  felt ;  and  this  is  the  same  as  sympathy  with  the  human  mind 


MADAME  PASTA  AND  MADEMOISELLE  MARS.  25\ 

placed  in  actual  situations,  and  influenced  by  the  real  causes  that 
are  supposed  to  act.  Genius  is  the  power  which  equalizes  or 
identifies  the  imagination  with  the  realitj'  or  with  nature.  Cer- 
tain events  happening  to  us  naturally  produce  joy,  others  sorrow, 
and  these  feelings,  if  excessive,  lead  to  other  consequences,  such  as 
stupor  or  ecstasy,  and  express  themselves  by  certain  signs  in  the 
countenance  or  voice  or  gestures ;  and  we  admire  and  applaud 
an  actress  accordingly,  who  gives  these  tones  and  gestures  as  they 
would  follow  in  the  order  of  things,  because  we  then  know  that 
ner  mind  has  been  affected  in  like  manner,  that  she  enters  deeply 
into  the  resources  of  nature,  and  understands  the  riches  of  the  hu- 
man heart.  For  nothing  else  can  impel  and  stir  her  up  to  the 
imitation  of  the  truth.  The  way  in  which  real  causes  act  upon 
the  feelings  is  not  arbitrary,  is  not  fanciful ;  it  is  as  true  as  it  is 
powerful  and  unforeseen ;  the  effects  can  only  be  similar  when 
the  exciting  causes  have  a  correspondence  with  each  other,  and 
there  is  nothing  like  feeling  but  feeling.  The  sense  of  joy  can 
alone  produce  the  smile  of  joy;  and  in  proportion  to  the  sweet- 
ness, the  unconsciousness,  and  the  expansion  of  the  last,  we  may 
De  sure  is  the  fulness  and  sincerity  of  the  heart  from  which  it  pro- 
ceeds. The  elements  of  joy  at  least  are  there,  in  their  integrity 
and  perfection.  The  death  or  absence  of  a  beloved  object  is 
nothing  as  a  word,  as  a  mere  passing  thought,  till  it  comes  to  be 
dwelt  upon,  and  we  begin  to  feel  the  revulsion,  the  long  dreary 
separation,  the  stunning  sense  of  the  blow  to  our  happiness,  as  we 
should  in  reality.  The  power  of  giving  this  sad  and  bewildering 
effect  of  sorrow  on  the  stage  is  derived  from  the  force  of  sympathy 
with  what  we  should  feel  in  reality.  That  is,  a  great  histrionic 
genius  is  one  that  approximates  the  effects  of  words,  or  of  sup- 
posed situations  on  the  mind,  most  nearly  to  the  deep  and  vivid 
effect  of  real  and  inevitable  ones.  Joy  produces  tears  :  the  vio- 
lence of  passion  turns  to  childish  weakness ;  but  this  could  not  be 
foreseen  by  study,  nor  taught  by  rules,  nor  mimicked  by  observa- 
tion. Natural  acting  is  therefore  fine,  because  it  implies  and  calls 
forth  the  most  varied  and  strongest  feelings  that  the  supposed  cha- 
racters and  circumstances  can  possibly  give  birth  to  :  it  reaches 
he  height  of  the  subject.  The  conceiving  or  entering  into  a  part 
in  this  sense  is  everything  :  the  acting  follows  easily  and  of  course. 

28* 


IS?  TABLE  TALK. 


But  art  without  nature  is  a  nickname,  a  word  without  meaning, 
a  conclusion  without  any  premises  to  go  upon.  The  beauty  of 
Madame  Pasta's  acting  in  Nina  proceeds  upon  this  principle.  It 
is  not  what  she  does  at  any  particular  juncture,  but  she  seems  to 
be  the  character,  and  to  be  incapable  of  divesting  herself  of  it. 
This  is  true  acting :  anything  else  is  playing  tricks,  may  be  clever 
and  ingenious,  is  French  Opera-dancing,  recitation,  heroics  or 
hysterica — but  it  is  not  true  nature  or  true  art. 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT,  RACINE,  AND  SHAKSPEARE.       253 


ESSAY  XIX. 

Sir  Walter  Scott,  Racine,  and  Shakspeare 

The  argument  at  the  end  of  the  last  Essay  may  possibly  serve 
to  throw  some  light  on  the  often  agitated  and  trite  question, 
Whether  we  receive  more  pleasure  from  an  Opera  or  a  Tragedy, 
from  the  words  or  the  pantomime  of  a  fine  dramatic  representa- 
tion ?  A  musician  I  can  conceive  to  declare,  sincerely  and  con- 
scientiously, in  favor  of  the  Opera  over  the  theatre,  for  he  has 
made  it  his  chief  or  exclusive  study.  But  I  have  heard  some 
literary  persons  do  the  same  ;  and  in  them  it  appears  to  me  to  be 
more  the  affectation  of  candor,  than  candor  itself.  "  The  still 
small  voice  is  wanting  "  in  this  preference ;  for  however  lulling 
or  overpowering  the  effect  of  music  may  be  at  the  time,  we  return 
to  nature  at  last ;  it  is  there  we  find  solidity  and  repose,  and  it  ia 
from  this  that  the  understanding  ought  to  give  its  casting  vote. 
Indeed  there  is  a  sense  of  reluctance  and  a  sort  of  critical  re- 
morse in  the  opposite  course  as  in  giving  up  an  old  prejudice  or 
a  friend  to  whom  we  are  under  considerable  obligations  ;  but  this 
very  feeling  of  the  conquest  or  sacrifice  of  a  prejudice  is  a  tacit 
proof  that  we  are  wrong ;  for  it  arises  only  out  of  the  strong  inte- 
rest excited  in  the  course  of  time,  and  involved  in  the  nature  and 
principle  of  the  drama. 

Words  are  the  signs  which  point  out  and  define  the  objects  of 
the  highest  import  to  the  human  mind ;  and  speech  is  the  habitual, 
and  as  it  were  most  intimate  mode  of  expressing  those  signs,  the 
one  with  which  our  practical  and  serious  associations  are  most  in 
unison.  To  give  a  deliberate  verdict  on  the  other  side  of  the 
question  seems,  therefore,  effeminate  and  unjust.  A  rose  is  de- 
lightful to  the  smell,  a  pine-apple  to  the  taste.  The  nose  and  the 
Dalate,  if  their  opinion  were  asked,  might  very  fairly  give  it  in 
favor  of  these  against  any  rival  sentiment ;  but  the  head  and  the 
heart  cannot  be  expected  to  become  accomplices  against  them 


254  TABLE  TALK. 


selves.  We  cannot  pay  a  worse  compliment  to  any  pleasure  or 
pursuit  than  to  surrender  the  pretensions  of  some  other  to  it. 
Everything  stands  best  on  its  own  foundation.  A  sound  expresses, 
for  the  most  part,  nothing  but  itself;  a  word  expresses  a  million 
of  sounds.  The  thought  or  impression  of  the  moment  is  one 
thing,  and  it  may  be  more  or  less  delightful ;  but  beyond  this,  it 
may  relate  to  the  fate  or  events  of  a  whole  life,  and  it  is  this 
moral  and  intellectual  perspective  that  words  convey  in  its  full 
signification  and  extent,  and  that  gives  a  proportionable  superior- 
ity in  weight,  in  compass,  and  dignity  to  the  denunciations  of  the 
tragic  Muse.  The  language  of  the  understanding  is  necessary 
to  a  rational  being.  Man  is  dumb  and  prone  to  the  earth  without 
it.  It  is  that  which  opens  the  vista  of  our  past  or  future  years. 
Otherwise  a  cloud  is  upon  it,  like  the  mist  of  the  morning,  like  a 
veil  of  roses,  an  exhalation  of  sweet  sounds,  or  rich  distilled  per- 
fumes ;  no  matter  what — it  is  the  nerve  or  organ  that  is  chiefly 
touched,  the  sense  that  is  wrapped  in  ecstasy  or  waked  to  mad- 
ness ;  the  man  remains  unmoved,  torpid,  and  listless,  blind  to 
causes  and  consequences,  which  he  can  never  remain  satisfied 
without  knowing,  but  seems  shut  up  in  a  cell  of  ignorance,  baf- 
fled and  confounded.  Sounds  without  meaning  are  like  a  glare 
of  light  without  objects  ;  or,  an  Opera  is  to  a  Tragedy  what  a 
transparency  is  to  a  picture.  We  are  delighted  because  we  are 
dazzled.  But  words  are  a  key  to  the  affections.  They  not  only 
excite  feelings,  but  they  point  to  the  why  and  wherefore.  Causes 
march  before  them,  and  consequences  follow  after  them.  They 
are  links  in  the  chain  of  the  universe,  and  the  grappling-irons 
that  bind  us  to  it.  They  open  the  gates  of  Paradise,  and  reveal 
the  abyss  of  human  wo. 

"  Four  lagging  winters  and  four  wanton  springs 
Die  in  a  word  ;  such  is  the  breath  of  kings." 

But  in  this  respect  all  men  who  have  the  use  of  speech  are  kings. 
It  is  words  that  constitute  all  but  the  present  moment,  but  the  pre. 
sent  object.  They  may  not  and  they  do  not  give  the  whole  of 
any  train  of  impressions  which  they  suggest ;  but  they  alone 
answer  in  any  degree  to  the  truth  of  things,  unfold  the  dark  laby- 
rinth of  fate,  or  unravel  the  web  of  the  human  heart ;  for  they 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT,  RACINE,  AND  SHAKSPEARE       255 


alone  describe  things  in  the  order  and  relation  in  which  thev  hap- 
pen in  human  life.  Men  do  not  dance  or  sing  through  life  ;  or 
an  Opera  or  a  ballet  would  "  come  home  to  the  bosoms  and  busi- 
ness of  men,"  in  the  same  manner  that  a  Tragedy  or  Comedy 
does.  As  it  is,  they  do  not  piece  on  to  our  ordinary  existence, 
nor  go  to  enrich  our  habitual  reflections.  We  wake  from  them 
as  from  a  drunken  dream,  or  a  last  night's  debauch  ;  and  think 
of  them  no  more,  till  the  actual  impression  is  repeated.  On  the 
other  hand,  pantomime  action  (as  an  exclusive  and  new  species 
of  the  drama)  is  like  tragedy  obtruncated  and  thrown  on  the 
ground,  gasping  for  utterance  and  struggling  for  breath.  It  is  a 
display  of  the  powers  of  art,  I  should  think  more  wonderful  than 
satisfactory.  There  is  a  stifling  sensation  about  it.  It  does  not 
throw  off*  "  the  perilous  stuff  that  weighs  upon  the  heart,"  bu* 
must  rather  aggravate  and  tighten  the  pressure. 

"  Give  sorrow  words ;  the  grief  that  does  not  speak, 
Whispers  the  o'er-fraught  heart,  and  bids  it  break." 

This  is  perhaps  the  cause  of  our  backwardness  to  admit  a  com- 
parison between  Mrs.  Siddons  and  Palarini,  between  Shakspeare 
and  Vigano.  Poetry  and  words  speak  a  language  proper  to  hu- 
manity ;  every  other  is  comparatively  foreign  to  it.  The  dis- 
tinction  here  laid  down  is  important,  and  should  be  kept  sacred. 
Even  in  speaking  a  foreign  language,  words  lose  half  their  mean- 
ing, and  are  no  longer  an  echo  to  the  sense ;  virtue  becomes  a 
cant-term,  vice  sounds  like  an  agreeable  novelty,  and  ceases  to 
shock.  How  much  more  must  this  effect  happen,  if  we  lay  aside 
speech  (our  distinguishing  faculty)  altogether,  or  try  to  "  gabble 
most  brutishly,"  measure  good  and  evil  by  the  steps  of  a  dance, 
and  breathe  our  souls  away  in  dying  swan-like  symphonies !  But 
it  may  be  asked,  how  does  all  this  affect  my  favorite  art  of  paint- 
ing ?  I  leave  somebody  else  to  answer  that  question.  It  will  be 
a  good  exercise  for  their  ingenuity,  if  not  for  their  ingenuousness. 
I  proceed  to  the  more  immediate  object  of  this  Essay,  which 
was  to  distinguish  between  the  talents  of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  Racine, 
and  Shakspeare.  The  subject  occurred  to  me  from  some  conver- 
sation  with  a  French  lady,  who  entertains  a  project  of  introducing 
Shakspeare  in  France.     As  I  demurred  to  the  probability  of  this 


256  TABLE  TALK. 


alteration  in  the  national  taste,  she  endeavored  to  overcome  my 
despondency  by  several  lively  arguments,  and  among  other  things, 
urged  the  instantaneous  and  universal  success  of  the  Scotch 
Novels  among  all  ranks  and  conditions  of  the  French  people.  As 
Shakspeare  had. been  performing  quarantine  among  them  for  a 
century  and  a  half  to  no  purpose,  I  thought  this  circumstance 
rather  proved  the  difference  in  the  genius  of  the  two  writers  than 
a  change  in  the  taste  of  the  nation.  Madame  B.  stoutly  main- 
tained the  contrary  opinion :  and  when  an  Englishman  argues 
with  a  Frenchwoman  he  has  very  considerable  odds  against  him. 
The  only  advantage  you  have  in  this  case  is  that  you  can  plead 
inability  to  express  yourself  properly,  and  may  be  supposed  to 
have  a  meaning  where  you  have  none.  An  eager  manner  will 
supply  the  place  of  distinct  ideas,  and  you  have  only  not  to  sur- 
render in  form,  to  appear  to  come  off  with  flying  colors.  The 
not  being  able  to  make  others  understand  me,  however,  prevents 
me  from  understanding  myself,  and  I  was  by  no  means  satisfied 
with  the  reasons  I  alleged  in  the  present  instance.  I  tried  to 
mend  them  the  next  day,  and  the  following  is  the  result.  It  was 
supposed  at  one  time  that  the  genius  of  the  Author  of  Waverley 
was  confined  to  Scotland  ;  that  his  Novels  and  Tales  were  a 
bundle  of  national  prejudices  and  local  traditions,  and  that  his 
superiority  would  desert  him,  the  instant  he  attempted  to  cross 
the  Border.  He  made  the  attempt,<however,  and  contrary  to  these 
unfavorable  prognostics,  succeeded.  Ivanhoe,  if  not  equal  to  the 
very  best  of  the  Scotch  Novels,  is  very  nearly  so  ;  and  the  scenery 
and  manners  are  truly  English.  In  Quentin  Durward,  again,  he 
made  a  descent  upon  France,  and  gained  new  laurels,  instead  of 
losing  his  former  ones.  This  seemed  to  bespeak  a  versatility  of 
talent  and  a  plastic  power,  which  in  the  first  instance  had  been 
called  in  question.  A  Scotch  mist  had  been  suspected  to  hang 
its  mystery  over  the  page  ;  his  imagination  was  borne  up  on  High- 
land superstitions  and  obsolete  traditions,  "  sailing  with  supreme 
dominion  "  through  the  murky  regions  of  ignorance  and  barba- 
rism ;  and  if  ever  at  a  loss,  his  invention  was  eked  out  and  got  a 
east  by  means  of  ancient  documents  and  the  records  of  criminal 
jurisprudence  or  fanatic  rage.  The  Black  Dwarf  was  a  para- 
phrase of  the  current  anecdotes  of  David  Ritchie,  without  any 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT,  RACINE,  AND  SHAKSPEARE.      257 

additional  point  or  interest,  and  the  story  of  Effie  Deans  had  slept 
for  a  century  in  the  law  reports  and  depositions  relative  to  the 
Heart  of  Mid-Lothian.  To  be  sure,  nothing  could  be  finer  or 
truer  to  nature  ;  for  the  human  heart,  whenever  or  however  it  is 
wakened,  has  a  stirring  power  in  it,  and  as  to  the  truth  of  nature, 
nothing  can  be  more  like  nature  than  facts,  if  you  know  where  to 
find  them.  But  as  to  sheer  invention,  there  appeared  to  be  about 
as  much  as  there  is  in  the  getting  up  the  melo-dramatic  represen- 
tation of  the  Maid  and  the  Magpie  from  the  Causes  Ce'lebres.  The 
invention  is  much  greater  and  the  effect  is  not  less  in  Mrs.  Inch- 
bald's  Nature  and  Art,  where  there  is  nothing  that  can  have 
been  given  in  evidence  but  the  Trial-Scene  near  the  end,  and  even 
that  is  not  a  legal  anecdote,  but  a  pure  dramatic  fiction.  Before 
I  proceed,  I  may  as  well  dwell  on  this  point  a  little.  The  heroine 
of  the  story,  the  once  innocent  and  beautiful  Hannah,  is  brought 
by  a  series  of  misfortunes  and  crimes  (the  effect  of  a  misplaced 
attachment)  to  be  tried  for  her  life  at  the  Old  Bailey,  and  as  her 
Judge,  her  former  lover  and  seducer,  is  about  to  pronounce  sen- 
tence upon  her,  she  calls  out  in  an  agony — "  Oh  !  not  from  you  !" 
and  as  the  Hon.  Mr .  Norwynne  proceeds  to  finish  his  solemn 
address,  falls  in  a  swoon,  and  is  taken  senseless  from  the  bar.  1 
know  nothing  in  the  world  so  affecting  as  this.  Now  if  Mrs. 
Inchbald  had  merely  found  this  story  in  the  Newgate-Calendar, 
and  transplanted  it  into  a  novel,  I  conceive  that  her  merit  in  point 
of  genius  (not  to  say  feeling)  would  be  less  than  if  having  all  the 
other  circumstances  given,  and  the  apparatus  ready,  and  this  ex. 
clamation  alone  left  blank,  she  had  filled  it  up  from  her  own  heart 
that  is,  from  an  intense  conception  of  the  situation  of  the  parties, 
so  that  from  the  harrowing  recollections  passing  through  the  mind 
of  the  poor  girl  so  circumstanced,  this  uncontrollable  gush  of 
feeling  would  burst  from  her  lips.  Just  such  I  apprehend,  gene, 
rally  speaking,  is  the  amount  of  the  difference  between  the  genius 
of  Shakspeare  and  that  of  Sir  Walter  Scott.  It  is  the  difference 
between  originality  and  the  want  of  it,  between  writing  and  tran- 
scribing. Almost  all  the  finest  scenes  and  touches,  the  great 
master-strokes  in  Shakspeare,  are  such  as  must  have  belonged  to 
the  class  of  invention,  where  the  secret  lay  between  him  and  hia 
own  heart,  and  the  power  exerted  is  in  adding  to  the  given  mate- 

SECOND    SERIES. PART    I.  18 


3J>8  TABLE  TALK. 


rials  and  working  something  out  of  them  :  in  the  Author  of  Wa- 
verley,  not  all,  but  the  principal  and  characteristic  beauties  are 
such  as  may  and  do  belong  to  the  class  of  compilation,  that  is, 
consist  in  bringing  the  materials  together  and  leaving  them  to  pro- 
duce their  own  effect.  Sir  Walter  Scott  is  much  such  a  writer 
as  the  Duke  of  Wellington  is  a  General  (I  am  profaning  a  number 
of  great  names  in  this  article  by  unequal  comparisons).  The  one 
gets  a  hundred  thousand  men  together,  and  wisely  leaves  it  to 
them  to  fight  out  the  battle,  for  if  he  meddled  with  it,  he  might 
spoil  sport :  the  other  gets  an  innumerable  quantity  of  facts  to- 
gether, and  lets  them  tell  their  own  story,  as  best  they  may.  The 
facts  are  stubborn  in  the  last  instance  as  the  men  are  in  the  first, 
and  in  neither  case  is  the  broth  spoiled  by  the  cook.  This  absti- 
nence from  interfering  with  their  resources,  lest  they  should  defeat 
their  own  success,  shows  great  modesty  and  self-knowledge  in  the 
compiler  of  romances  and  the  leader  of  armies,  but  little  boldness 
or  inventiveness  of  genius.  We  begin  to  measure  Shakspeare's 
height  from  the  superstructure  of  passion  and  fancy  he  has  raised 
out  of  his  subject  and  story,  on  which  too  rests  the  triumphal 
arch  of  his  fame  :  if  we  were  to  take  away  the  subject  and  story, 
the  portrait  and  history  from  the  Scotch  Novels,  no  great  deal 
would  be  left  worth  talking  about. 

No  one  admires  or  delights  in  the  Scotch  Novels  more  than  I 
do ;  but  at  the  same  time  when  I  hear  it  asserted  that  his  mind  is 
of  the  same  class  with  Shakspeare's,  or  that  he  imitates  nature  in 
the  same  way,  I  confess  I  cannot  assent  to  it.  No  two  things 
appear  to  me  more  different.  Sir  Walter  is  an  imitator  of  nature 
and  nothing  more  ;  but  I  think  Shakspeare  is  infinitely  more  than 
this.  The  creative  principle  is  everywhere  restless  and  redun- 
dant in  Shakspeare,  both  as  it  relates  to  the  invention  of  feeling 
and  imagery ;  in  the  Author  of  Waverley  it  lies  for  the  most  part 
dormant,  sluggish  and  unused.  Sir  Walter's  mind  is  full  of  infor- 
mation, but  the  "  o 'er '-informing  power"  is  not  there.  Shak- 
speare's spirit,  like  fire,  shines  through  him :  Sir  Walter's  like  a 
stream,  reflects  surrounding  objects.  It  is  true,  he  has  shifted 
the  scene  from  Scotland  into  England  and  France,  and  the  man- 
ners and  characters  are  strikingly  English  and  French ;  but  this 
does  not  prove  that  they  are  not  local,  and  that  they  are  not  bor 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT,  RACINE,  AND  SHAKSPEARE       2ft9 

rowed,  as  well  as  the  scenery  and  costume,  from  comparatively 
obvious  and  mechanical  sources.  Nobody  from  reading  Shak- 
speare  would  know  (except  from  the  Dramatis  Persona)  that  Lear 
was  an  English  king.  He  is  merely  a  king  and  a  father.  The 
ground  is  common :  but  what  a  well  of  tears  has  he  dug  out  of 
it !  The  tradition  is  nothing,  or  a  foolish  one.  There  are  no 
data  in  history  to  go  upon ;  no  advantage  is  taken  of  costume,  no 
acquaintance  with  geography  or  architecture  or  dialect  is  neces- 
sary :  but  there  is  an  old  tradition,  human  nature — an  old  tem- 
ple, the  human  mind — and  Shakspeare  walks  into  it  and  looks 
about  him  with  a  lordly  eye,  and  seizes  on  the  sacred  spoils  as 
his  own.  The  story  is  a  thousand  or  two  years  old,  and  yet  the 
tragedy  has  no  smack  of  antiquarianism  in  it.  I  should  like  very 
well  to  see  Sir  Walter  giving  us  a  tragedy  of  this  kind,  a  huge 
"  globose"  of  sorrow,  swinging  round  in  mid-air,  independent  of 
time,  place,  and  circumstance,  sustained  by  its  own  weight  and 
motion,  and  not  propped  up  by  the  levers  of  custom,  or  patched 
up  with  quaint,  old-fashioned  dresses,  or  set  off  by  grotesque 
backgrounds  or  rusty  armor,  but  in  which  the  mere  parapher- 
nalia and  accessories  were  left  out  of  the  question,  and  nothing 
but  the  soul  of  passion  and  the  pith  of  imagination  was  to  be 
found.  "  A  Dukedom  to  a  beggarly  denier,"  he  would  make  no- 
thing of  it.  Does  this  prove  he  has  done  nothing,  or  that  he  has 
not  done  the  greatest  things  ?  No,  but  that  he  is  not  like  Shak- 
speare. For  instance,  when  Lear  says,  "  The  little  dogs  and  all, 
Tray,  Blanche,  and  Sweetheart,  see  they  bark  at  me !"  there 
is  no  old  Chronicle  of  the  line  of  Brute,  no  black-letter  broad-side, 
no  tattered  ballad,  no  vague  rumor,  in  which  this  exclamation  is 
registered  ;  there  is  nothing  romantic,  quaint,  mysterious  in  the 
objects  introduced  :  the  illustration  is  borrowed  from  the  com- 
monest and  most  casual  images  in  nature,  and  yet  it  is  this  veiy 
circumstance  that  lends  its  extreme  force  to  the  expression  of  his 
grief  by  showing  that  even  the  lowest  things  in  creation  and  the 
last  you  would  think  of  had  in  his  imagination  turned  against 
him.  All  nature  was,  as  he  supposed,  in  a  conspiracy  against 
him,  and  the  most  trivial  and  insignificant  creatures  concerned  in 
it  were  the  most  striking  proofs  of  its  malignity  and  extent.  It 
is  the  depth  of  passion,  however,  or  of  the  poet's  sympathy  witli 


260  TABLE  TALK. 


it,  that  distinguishes  this  character  of  torturing  familiarity  in 
them,  invests  them  with  corresponding  importance,  and  suggests 
them  by  the  force  of  contrast.  It  is  not  that  certain  images  are 
surcharged  with  a  prescriptive  influence  over  the  imagination 
from  known  and  existing  prejudices,  so  that  to  approach  or  even 
mention  them  is  sure  to  excite  a  pleasing  awe  and  horror  in  the 
mind  (the  effect  in  this  case  is  mostly  mechanical) — the  whole 
sublimity  of  the  passage  is  from  the  weight  of  passion  thrown 
into  it,  and  this  is  the  poet's  own  doing.  This  is  not  trick,  but 
genius.  Meg  Merrilies  on  her  death-bed  says,  "  Lay  my  head 
to  the  East !"  Nothing  can  be  finer  or  more  thrilling  than  this 
in  its  way ;  but  the  author  has  little  to  do  with  it.  It  is  an 
Oriental  superstition  ;  it  is  a  proverbial  expression  ;  it  is  part  of  the 
gibberish  (sublime  though  it  be)  of  her  gipsey  clan  ! — "Nothing 
but  his  unkind  daughters  could  have  brought  him  to  this  pass." 
This  is  not  a  cant-phrase,  nor  the  fragment  of  an  old  legend,  nor 
a  mysterious  spell,  nor  the  butt-end  of  a  wizard's  denunciation. 
It  is  the  mere  natural  ebullition  of  passion,  urged  nearly  to  mad- 
ness, and  that  will  admit  no  other  cause  of  dire  misfortune  but  its 
own,  which  swallows  up  all  other  griefs.  The  force  of  despair 
hurries  the  imagination  over  the  boundary  of  fact  and  common 
sense,  and  renders  the  transition  sublime  ;  but  there  is  no  pre- 
cedent or  authority  for  it,  except  in  the  general  nature  of  the 
human  mind.  I  think,  but  am  not  sure  that  Sir  Walter  Scott  has 
imitated  this  turn  of  reflection,  by  making  Madge  Wildfire  ascribe 
Jenny  Deans's  uneasiness  to  the  loss  of  her  baby,  which  had 
unsettled  her  own  brain.  Again,  Lear  calls  on  the  Heavens  to 
take  his  part,  for  "  they  are  old  like  him."  Here  there  is  nothing 
to  prop  up  the  image  but  the  strength  of  passion,  confounding  the 
infirmity  of  age  with  the  stability  of  the  firmament,  and  equalling 
the  complainant,  through  the  sense  of  suffering  and  wrong,  with 
the  Majesty  of  the  Highest.  This  finding  out  a  parallel  between 
the  most  unlike  objects,  because  the  individual  would  wish  to  find 
one  to  support  the  sense  of  his  own  misery  and  helplessness,  is 
truly  Shakspearian  ;  it  is  an  instinctive  law  of  our  nature,  and 
the  genuine  inspiration  of  the  Muse.  Racine  (but  let  me  not 
anticipate)  would  make  him  pour  out  three  hundred  verses  of 
lamentation  for  his  loss  of  kingdom,  his  feebleness,  and  his  old 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT,  RACINE,  AND  SHAKSPEARE       201 

age,  coming  to  the  same  conclusion  at  the  end  of  every  third 
couplet,  instead  of  making  him  grasp  at  once  at  the  Heavens  for 
support.  The  witches  in  Macbeth  are  traditional,  preternatural 
personages ;  and  there  Sir  Walter  would  have  left  them  after 
making  what  use  of  them  he  pleased  as  a  sort  of  Gothic  machinery. 
Shakspeare  makes  something  more  of  them,  and  adds  to  the  mys- 
tery by  explaining  it. 

"  The  earth  hath  bubbles  as  the  water  hath, 
And  these  are  of  them." 

We  have  their  physiognomy  too — 

"  and  enjoin'd  silence, 


By  each  at  once  her  choppy  finger  laying 
Upon  her  skinny  lip." 

And  the  mode  of  their  disappearance  is  thus  described — 

"  And  then  they  melted  into  thin  air." 

What  an  idea  is  here  conveyed  of  silence  and  vacancy !  The 
geese  of  Micklestane  Muir  (the  country-woman  and  her  flock  of 
geese  turned  into  stone)  in  the  Black  Dwarf,  are  a  fine  and  petri- 
fying metamorphosis ;  but  it  is  the  tradition  of  the  country  and 
no  more.  Sir  Walter  has  told  us  nothing  farther  of  it  than  the 
first  clown  whom  we  might  ask  concerning  it.  I  do  not  blame 
him  for  that,  though  I  cannot  give  him  credit  for  what  he  has  not 
done.  The  poetry  of  the  novel  is  a  fixture  of  the  spot.  Meg 
Merrilies  I  also  allow,  with  all  possible  good-will,  to  be  a  most 
romantic  and  astounding  personage ;  yet  she  is  a  little  melo- 
dramatic. Her  exits  and  entrances  are  pantomimic,  and  her  long 
red  cloak,  her  elf-locks,  the  rock  on  which  she  stands,  and  th 
white  cloud  behind  her  are,  or  might  be  made,  the  property  of  a 
theatre.  Shakspeare's  witches  are  nearly  exploded  on  the  stage. 
Their  broomsticks  are  left ;  their  metaphysics  are  gone,  buried 
five  editions  deep  in  Captain  Medwin's  Conversations !  The  pas- 
sion in  Othello  is  made  out  of  nothing  but  itself;  there  is  no  ex- 
ternal machinery  to  help  it  on  ;  its  highest  intermediate  agent  \a 
an  old-fashioned  pocket-handkerchief.     Yet  "  there's   magic   in 


262  TABLE  TALK 


the  web"  of  thoughts  and  feelings,  done  after  the  commonest  pat- 
era of  human  life.  The  power  displayed  in  it  is  that  of  intense 
passion  and  powerful  intellect,  wielding  every-day  events,  and 
imparting  its  force  to  them,  not  swayed  or  carried  along  by  them 
as  in  a  go-cart.  The  splendor  is  that  of  genius  darting  out  its 
forked  flame  on  whatever  comes  in  its  way,  and  kindling  and 
melting  it  in  the  furnace  of  affection,  whether  it  be  flax  or  iron. 
The  coloring,  the  form,  the  motion,  the  combination  of  objects 
depend  on  the  predisposition  of  the  mind,  moulding  nature  to  its 
own  purposes  ;  in  Sir  Walter  the  mind  is  as  wax  to  circumstan- 
ces, and  owns  no  other  impress.  Shakspeare  is  a  half-worker 
with  nature.  Sir  Walter  is  like  a.  man  who  has  got  a  romantic 
spinning-jenny,  which  he  has  only  to  set  a  going,  and  it  does  his 
work  for  him  much  better  and  faster  than  he  can  do  it  for  him- 
self. He  lays  an  embargo  on  "  all  appliances  and  means  to  boot," 
on  history,  tradition,  local  scenery,  costume  and  manners,  and 
makes  his  characters  chiefly  up  of  these.  Shakspeare  seizes 
only  on  the  ruling  passion,  and  miraculously  evolves  all  the  rest 
from  it.  The  eagerness  of  desire  suggests  every  possible  event 
that  can  irritate  or  thwart  it,  foresees  all  obstacles,  catches  at 
every  trifle,  clothes  itself  with  imagination,  and  tantalises  itself 
with  hope ;  "  sees  Helen's  beauty  in  a  brow  of  Egypt,"  starts  at 
a  phantom,  and  makes  the  universe  tributary  to  it,  and  the  play- 
thing of  its  fancy.  There  is  none  of  this  "over- weening  importu- 
nity of  the  imagination  in  the  Author  of  Waverley ;  he  does  his 
work  well,  but  in  another-guess  manner.  His  imagination  is  a 
matter-of-fact  imagination.  To  return  to  Othello.  Take  the 
celebrated  dialogue  in  the  third  act.  "  'Tis  common."  There 
is  nothing  but  the  writhings  and  contortions  of  the  heart,  probed 
by  affliction's  point,  as  the  flesh  shrinks  under  the  surgeon's 
knife.  All  its  starts  and  flaws  are  but  the  conflicts  and  misgiv- 
ings of  hope  and  fear,  in  the  most  ordinary  but  trying  circum- 
stances. The  "  Not  a  jot,  not  a  jot,"  has  nothing  to  do  with  any 
old  legend  or  prophecy.  It  is  only  the  last  poor  effort  of  human 
hope,  taking  refuge  on  the  lips.  When  after  being  infected  with 
jealousy  by  Iago,  he  retires  apparently  comforted  and  resigned, 
and  then  without  anything  having  happened  in  the  interim,  re- 
turns stung  to  madness,  crowned  with  his  wrongs,  and  raging  for 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT,  RACINE,  AND  SHAKSPEARE.      263 

revenge,  the  effect  is  like  that  of  poison  inflaming  the  blood,  or 
like  fire  inclosed  in  a  furnace.  The  soli  principle  of  invention 
is  the  sympathy  with  the  natural  revulsion  of  the  human  mind, 
and  its  involuntary  transition  from  false  security  to  uncontrollable 
fury.  The  springs  of  mental  passion  are  fretted  and  wrought  to 
madness,  and  produce  this  explosion  in  the  poet's  breast.  So 
when  Othello  swears  "  By  yon  marble  heaven,"  the  epithet  is 
suggested  by  the  hardness  of  his  heart  from  the  sense  of  injury  : 
the  texture  of  the  outward  object  is  borrowed  from  that  of  the 
thoughts :  and  that  noble  simile,  "  Like  the  Propontic,"  &c, 
seems  only  an  echo  of  the  sounding  tide  of  passion,  and  to  roll 
from  the  same  source,  the  heart.  The  dialogue  between  Hubert 
and  Arthur,  and  that  between  Brutus  and  Cassius,  are  among  the 
finest  illustrations  of  the  same  principle,  which  indeed  is  every- 
where predominant  (perhaps  to  a  fault)  in  Shakspeare.  His 
genius  is  like  the  Nile  overflowing  and  enriching  its  banks ;  that 
of  Sir  Walter  is  like  a  mountain-stream  rendered  interesting  by 
the  picturesqueness  of  the  surrounding  scenery.  Shakspeare 
produces  his  most  striking  dramatic  effects  out  of  the  workings 
of  the  finest  and  most  intense  passions ;  Sir  Walter  places  his 
dramatis  persona  in  romantic  situations,  and  subjects  them  to 
extraordinary  occurrences,  and  narrates  the  results.  The  one 
gives  us  what  we  see  and  hear ;  the  other  what  we  are.  Hamlet 
is  not  a  person  whose  nativity  is  cast,  or  whose  death  is  foretold 
by  portents :  he  weaves  the  web  of  his  destiny  out  of  his  own 
thoughts,  and  a  very  quaint  and  singular  one  it  is.  We  have,  I 
think,  a  stronger  fellow-feeling  with  him  than  we  have  with  Ber- 
tram or  Waverley.  All  men  feel  and  think,  more  or  less :  but 
we  are  not  all  foundlings,  Jacobites,  or  astrologers.  We  might 
have  been  overturned  with  these  gentlemen  in  a  stage-coach:  we 
seem  to  have  been  schoolfellows  with  Hamlet  at  Wittenberg. 

I  will  not  press  this  argument  farther,  lest  I  should  make  it 
tedious,  and  run  into  questions  I  have  no  intention  to  meddle  with. 
All  I  mean  to  insist  npon  is,  that  Sir  Walter's  forte  is  in  the  rich- 
ness and  variety  of  his  materials,  and  Shakspeare's  in  the  working 
them  np.  Sir  Walter  is  distinguished  by  the  most  amazing 
retentiveness  of  memory,  and  vividness  of  conception  of  what 


264  TABLE  TALK. 


would  happen,  be  seen,  and  felt  by  everybody  in  given  circum 
stances ;  as  Shakspeare  is  by  inventiveness  of  genius,  by  a  faculty 
of  tracing  and  unfolding  the  most  hidden  yet  powerful  springs  of 
action,  scarce  recognized  by  ourselves,  and  by  an  endless  and 
felicitous  range  of  poetical  illustration,  added  to  a  wide  scope  of 
reading  and  of  knowledge.  One  proof  of  the  justice  of  these 
remarks  is,  that  whenever  Sir  Walter  comes  to  a  truly  dramatic 
situation,  he  declines  it  or  fails.  Thus  ill  the  Black  Dwarf,  all 
that  relates  to  the  traditions  respecting  this  mysterious  personage, 
to  the  superstitious  stories  founded  on  it,  is  admirably  done  and  to 
the  life,  with  all  the  spirit  and  freedom  of  originality  :  but  when 
he  comes  to  the  last  scene  for  which  all  the  rest  is  a  preparation, 
and  which  is  full  of  the  highest  interest  and  passion,  nothing  is 
done  ;  instead  of  an  address  from  Sir  Edward  Mauley,  recounting 
the  miseries  of  his  whole  life,  and  withering  up  his  guilty  rival 
with  the  recital,  the  Dwarf  enters  with  a  strange  rustling  noise, 
the  opposite  doors  fly  open,  and  the  affrighted  spectators  rush  out 
like  the  figures  in  a  pantomime.  This  is  not  dramatic,  but  melo- 
dramatic. There  is  a  palpable  disappointment  and  falling-off", 
where  the  interest  had  been  worked  up  to  the  highest  pitch  of 
expectation.  The  gratifying  of  this  appalling  curiosity  and 
interest  was  all  that  was  not  done  to  Sir  Walter's  hand  ;  and  this 
he  has  failed  to  do.  All  that  was  known  about  the  Black  Dwarf, 
his  figure,  his  desolate  habitation,  his  unaccountable  way  of  life, 
his  wrongs,  his  bitter  execrations  against  intruders  on  his  privacy, 
the  floating  and  exaggerated  accounts  of  him,  all  these  are 
given  with  a  masterly  and  faithful  hand,  this  is  matter  of  de- 
scription and  narrative :  but  when  the  true  imaginative  and 
dramatic  part  comes,  when  the  subject  of  this  disastrous  tale  is  to 
pour  out  the  accumulated  and  agonizing  effects  of  all  this  series 
of  wretchedness  and  torture  upon  his  own  mind,  that  is,  when  the 
person  is  to  speak  from  himself  and  to  stun  us  with  the  recoil  of 
passion  upon  external  agents  or  circumstances  that  have  caused 
it,  we  find  that  it  is  Sir  Walter  Scott  and  notShakspeare  that  is  his 
counsel-keeper,  that  the  author  is  a  novelist  and  not  a  poet.  All 
that  is  gossipped  in  the  neighborhood,  all  that  is  handed  down  in 
print,  all  of  which  a  drawing  or  an  etching  might  be  procured,  in 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT,  RACINE,  AND  SHAKSPEARE.      263 

gathered  together  and  communicated  to  the  public  :  what  the 
heart  whispers  to  itself  in  secret,  what  the  imagination  tells  in 
thunder,  this  alone  is  wanting,  and  this  is  the  great  thing  required 
to  make  good  the  comparison  in  question.  Sir  Walter  has  not 
then  imitated  Shakspeare,  but  he  has  given  us  nature,  such 
as  he  found  and  could  best  describe  it ;  and  he  resembles  him 
only  in  this,  that  he  thinks  c<*his  characters  and  never  of  himself, 
and  pours  out  his  works  with  such  unconscious  ease  and  prodigal- 
ity of  resources  that  he  thinks  nothing  of  them,  and  is  even  greater 
than  his  own  fame. 

The  genius  of  Shakspeare  is  dramatic,  that  of  Scott  narrative  or 
descriptive,  that  of  Racine  is  didactic.  He  gives,  as  I  conceive, 
the  common-places  of  the  human  heart  better  than  any  one,  but 
nothing  or  very  little  more.  He  enlarges  on  a  set  of  obvious  sen- 
timents  and  well-known  topics  with  considerable  elegance  of 
language  and  copiousness  of  declamation,  but  there  is  scarcely 
one  stroke  of  original  genius,  nor  anything  like  imagination  in 
his  writings.  He  strings  together  a  number  of  moral  reflections, 
and  instead  of  reciting  them  himself,  puts  them  into  the  mouths 
of  his  dramatis  persona,  who  talk  well  about  their  own  situations 
and  the  general  relations  of  human  life.  Instead  of  laying  bare 
the  heart  of  the  sufferer  with  all  its  bleeding  wounds  and  palpitat- 
ing fibres,  he  puts  into  his  hand  a  common-place  book,  and  he 
reads  us  a  lecture  from  this.  This  is  not  the  essence  of  the 
drama,  whose  object  and  privilege  it  is  to  give  us  ihe  extreme  and 
subtle  workings  of  the  human  mind  in  individual  circumstances, 
to  make  us  sympathize  with  the  sufferer,  or  feel  as  we  should  feel 
in  his  circumstances,  not  to  tell  the  indifferent  spectator  what  the 
indifferent  spectator  could  just  as  well  tell  him.  Tragedy  is  hu- 
man nature  tried  in  the  crucible  of  affliction,  not  exhibited  in  the 
vague  theorems  of  speculation.  The  poet's  pen  that  paints  all 
this  in  words  of  fire  and  images  of  gold  is  totally  wanting  in  Ra- 
cine. He  gives  neither  external  images  nor  the  internal  and 
secret  workings  of  the  human  breast.  Sir  Walter  Scott  gives  the 
external  imagery  or  machinery  of  passion  ;  Shakspeare  the  soul ; 
and  Racine  the  moral  or  argument  of  it.  The  French  object 
to  Shakspeare  for  his  breach  of  the  Unities,  and  hold  up  Racine 


266  TABLE  TALK. 

as  a  model  of  classical  propriety,  who  makes  a  Greek  hero  address 
a  Grecian  heroine  as  Madame.  Yet  this  is  not  barbarous — 
Why  ?  Because  it  is  French,  and  because  nothing  that  is  French 
can  be  barbarous  in  the  eyes  of  this  frivolous  and  pedantic  nation, 
who  would  prefer  a  peruke  of  the  age  of  Louis  XIV.  to  a  simple 
Greek  head-dress ! 


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